


Chaotic Neutral

by DragonBiblio



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU-sort of, Anathema is a Sneaky Shit and they'd be Lost Without Her, Aziraphale gets a Mobile, Aziraphale has his bookshop, Because Picture Texts, Beelzebub and Gabriel are Some Scheming Dicks, Crowley owns a Club, Crowley's stereo is a sassy shit, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Karaoke, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Plot, Slow Burn, Stolen Memories, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), The Bentley is also a Sassy Shit, crowley is a drama queen, slow seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-08-13 09:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBiblio/pseuds/DragonBiblio
Summary: Aziraphale is a hedonistic, barely tolerated, socially awkward principality angel stationed on earth who dutifully does his job by day and quietly indulges himself by night. He was given an average human shaped body that, according to his superiors, he has let go soft and useless. He is by no means special or especially powerful. Which makes it all the more confusing when Gabriel informs him, frowning mightily enough for God Herself, that he has been given a special task straight from the Top; compromise the Demon Crowley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little idea that's been fumbling around insistently in my head for a while now, so I'm just going to let it run. I'm not sure how long it will be, but I do have a basic story outline. I hope you enjoy it's beginning. 
> 
> Very sorry, but I do not have a beta. All mistakes are my own and I apologize.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.” Aziraphale spoke, attempting to smile politely as his gaze flitted nervously from Gabriel to Michael. 

He stood before them quite unexpectedly. A mere few moments ago, he had been in Ireland doing a spot of heavenly intervention on account of a young single mother, and suddenly he was whisked away to head office. He wasn’t due to give his report for another week. 

“Let me  _ dumb it down _ for you then.” Gabriel sighed exaggeratedly, his violet eyes rolling heavily towards the ceiling while Michael smirked silently at his side. “You are being transferred to Soho, London. There is a demon there causing a bit of a ruckus. Too many successful temptations, numbers falling below acceptable levels, blah blah blah. You will go to Soho where we have set you up with a boring little shop. You will meet this demon Crowley and ‘befriend him’” Gabriel inserted actual fingers quotes here, “and you will compromise him.”

“I see,” Aziraphale stated, even though he most certainly didn’t. “Just to clarify, Soho, London? I’ve always been told, explicitly, to stay out of London. In fact, that is the one city I’ve never been permitted to work in.” He explained nervously. He tried to smile but it somehow sat strangely on his lips, and he swallowed it with some discomfort instead. 

“Well now it’s the only city you’re permitted to work in!” Gabriel chuffed, smiling brightly and blankly, through clenched teeth. 

“Right. Excellent. I’ve always wanted to see London!” He managed, sliding a hand down his waistcoat as he straightened his shoulders. “One more question, if I may, what exactly do you mean by compromise?”

“We want him dead.” Michael drawled, their smirk unwavering. Aziraphale swallowed uncomfortably again. 

“Yes, exactly, we want him dead. Not discorporated. We want him gone. Wiped out. Ended. Permanently. Like, forever.” Gabriel added, with his fixed smile. 

“Ah. I, um. Well. I’ve never killed anything before. I’m, well, I’m not sure I can.” Aziraphale managed, the shock of their words causing a cold sweat to break over his corporate form. 

“Whether you do it, or you compromise him enough to make Hell doubt his loyalties, we don’t care. We just want him dead. Make it happen, Principality Aziraphale.” Gabriel ordered, his smile beginning to fall out of place as his face twitched. He and Michael began to turn from him. 

“Why me?” Aziraphale blurted, before he could be dismissed. 

“Why you? I’m afraid that’s classified. The order came from The Top.” Michael droned, staring at their nails instead of Aziraphale.

“The Top? You mean…?” Aziraphale whispered, glancing up at the ceiling uselessly, with awe. 

“Yes, classified. Get to work, Principality!” Gabriel sneered. 

Before he could say anything else on the subject, or any subject for that matter, Aziraphale had the unpleasant sensation of being ripped from the Heavenly plane and launched back down to Earth. Though not back towards Ireland, but towards London. Soho, to be precise. 

He had been moved with such force that upon landing he wasn’t even able to remain on his feet. The impact had left him dazed, aching, and a bit… smoking. Groaning, he pulled himself slowly from the concrete, grimacing at the smell of singed feathers, and opened his eyes to… darkness. Complete, utter, blackness. For one frightening moment, he thought they had thrown him a bit  _ too far.  _

The noise of traffic slowly breathed its way into his ears, and Aziraphale found the good sense to look around. It was night and quite late, he thought, and he was sitting on the wet cement in a dirty alley way. Sighing unhappily at the state of his clothes, Aziraphale pulled himself stiffly to his feet and tried to gather his wits. On instinct born of many years posing as a human, he began patting down his pockets. Eventually triumphant, he produced a wallet. Inside was a new ID-  _ A.Z. Fell, really, no imagination at all  _ -a hand full of credit cards, a bit more cash than he was used to-  _ uncharastically nice of them _ -and one business card. His own, in fact. It read;  _ A.Z. Fell, Collector of Rare Books and Antiquities, Soho, London _ . Along with his exact address. 

Aziraphale glanced around and, having no clue where he currently was and unable to find any useful landmarks, stowed his wallet away in his pocket once again. He straightened his scorched and damp clothes and set off towards the busy street at the end of the alley. Unfortunately though, it seemed Heaven intended for him to have a rough start. 

He had scarcely taken seven steps when a trio of large drunken men came stumbling into his alley, loudly searching for a place to piss. Aziraphale paused, debating whether he should duck behind a bin and wait them out. The decision was quickly taken out of his hands. 

“Oi! You, desk monkey!” One of them shouted. 

_ Desk monkey?? _

“Fancy a bit of change for a poor lad, such as meself?” The man asked, leering at him. His bad luck seemed to be spreading rather quickly, as Poor Drunken Lad’s friends also noticed him and joined in. 

“Yeah, I’ve seemed to have lost me wallet. Spot me a tenner?” Poor Drunken Lad Number Two chuckled greasily. 

“Why yes, of course. Let me just get my wallet, just a moment…” Aziraphale offered, hands shaking just a bit as he pulled the leather back out of his pocket. The Drunken Trio, apparently not expecting his immediate cooperation, glanced at each other stupidly. 

“Actually, make that fifty for me.” Poor Drunken Lad Number Three ordered, with much less mirth, upon seeing the wad of bills bulging from Aziraphale’s wallet.

On second thought, perhaps offering to pay them wasn’t such a grand idea. 

Aziraphale was struggling with whether to hand over all of the cash in his possession in hopes that the Trio would leave him alone, when a separate voice rang out from the alley entrance. 

“What the  _ bloody hell _ is going on here?” 

That was  _ the moment.  _ The moment that Aziraphale should have known, should have recognized, somewhere deep within him. That voice, slightly lisping, bringing images that Aziraphale didn’t quite understand. A soft smile, widening to show sharp teeth. Bright white light, with such warmth. Air gliding beneath his wings, as easy as silk. Movement so fluid it could have been dancing. A long, slender hand reaching up towards the sun. A flash of amber eyes, full of such _ intense longing _ . Such  _ love.  _

All of it gone as quickly as it had come. So quickly that Aziraphale couldn’t comprehend or save the images, the emotions. They swept from his mind as though the breeze had simply blown them away. 

“Nothin’ ta see here. Just chatting with a friend.” Poor Drunken Lad Number One offered, clapping his meaty hand down on Aziraphale’s shoulder unexpectedly. The poor angel, who had just been so thoroughly discombobulated by feelings he didn’t understand, wasn’t expecting the sudden weight. His body, already weak from his less than gentle return to earth, plummeted and hit the ground for the second time in less than ten minutes. 

As Aziraphale cracked his head on the pavement for the second time, he managed to remain conscious just long enough to process a rather angry shout, some quick motion, and a tangling of many bodies. Then all was dark. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Aziraphale woke with a long, drawn out groan. His body ached, he felt bruised and sore all over. His first reaction was to grimace and reach a hand up to his head, prodding gently at a rather impressive knot on the side of his skull. He turned his head to the side, feeling a satisfying crack in his neck, and pressed the lump into the mattress, sighing at the combined pain and pleasure. The silk smelled strangely… familiar. He was quite certain he had never inhaled this particular scent, but still. He turned more of his body, sighing into the mattress as he chased the scent, determined to identify-

Wait a moment. Mattress. He was on someone’s bed. 

Aziraphale blinked himself very suddenly wide awake. The bedroom was unfamiliar, obviously. Made up of stormy grey walls and dark mahogany floors, with a large four poster bed in the center space. It was all very minimalist, something you would find in some posh magazine. Certainly not a room anyone actually lived in. But the smell on the red silk sheets was unmistakable. Someone slept here. 

His body’s aches forgotten, Aziraphale slid carefully off of the bed, glancing around uneasily. The room was definitely empty, save for himself. The door was slightly ajar, and there was a soft rhythmic thudding sound in the air. He crept to the door and peered out, but saw nothing except a bare hallway with the same dark walls and floors, ending beyond to a brighter room that he couldn't make out. 

Being an angel, Aziraphale could have easily removed himself from the strange room and even out of the building, but something stayed his hand. Curiosity, perhaps. He slipped from the room and padded silently down the hall, vaguely realizing that whoever had brought him here had removed his shoes, and peered cautiously into the room beyond. 

It was rather beautiful. Minimalistic decor once again, a spotless and gleaming kitchen looking down over a wide living space with bare black leather couches, a glossy black piano, and more lush green houseplants than Aziraphale had ever seen. He may have entered into the Garden of Eden itself, if the Garden had suddenly begun sprouting modern decor alongside the plants. The far wall was nothing but glass from floor to ceiling, overlooking the London nightlife. The gentle thrumming sound still hummed in the air, it’s source still unseen. The space was devoid of any people though, so Aziraphale slowly made his way into the room, searching for something that would give him an idea about his enigmatic host. The plants seemed to glow happily as he stepped passed them, their lush leaves clinging to his coat sleeves. 

As Aziraphale stood fretting about in the middle of the room, the sound of a door opening and sharp words swept over him. 

“I don’t  _ care _ if his poor little granny has rectal cancer, I still want my damn fender by tomorrow, or I swear to  _ Someone _ I will hunt him down and he’ll wish rectal cancer was the leasssst of his worries!” The last was finished with a hiss and final jab at his phone screen, before angrily tossing his keys into clattering mess on the kitchen counter. 

He was still heaving sourly and hadn’t yet noticed Aziraphale, luckily for him, as Aziraphale felt as though he had hit the ground for the  _ third  _ time that evening. 

He was, quite honestly, the most beautiful creature the angel had ever seen. Long and languid, made up of sharp angles from the tips of his italian shoes to the shoulders of his expensively tailored black three piece suit, with long curly hair the color of burnt copper. Even his nose was long and a bit pointy, home to perfectly round sunglasses that hid his eyes from Aziraphale’s view. Never had he looked upon a human form and been so immediately enthralled. 

Then it got  _ even better _ , because this lovely creature turned and noticed Aziraphale and  _ smiled at him.  _

“Ah, hello! You’re awake, excellent. Feeling alright? You took a bit of a nasty tumble back there.” The lovely creature said, slipping his phone into his pocket and-  _ good Lord how does it fit in there, those trousers are so tight _ -before coming to stand in front of him. Impossibly, he was even more beautiful up close. 

“Ah, yes, fine, thank you. Sorry but, rectal cancer?” Aziraphale blundered helplessly, internally cursing himself. 

“Nothing to worry about. Some unfortunate pedestrian walked out in front of my car and bent up my bumper a bit, and I’m having to order a new one. Apparently they’re on back order.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Are they okay?” 

“Oh yes, it’s fine. It’s a 1926, great year. Rather hard to find parts for though.” 

“Well, I meant the pedestrian.” 

“Oh, who cares? Anyway, how are you doing? Alright there?” The lovely creature asked again, his expressive eyebrows darting down nearly beneath the frames of his sunglasses as he frowned at the lump on the side of Aziraphale’s head. 

“Yes, I am quite alright.” Aziraphale chuckled helplessly, unwillingly enamoured. 

“Can I get you anything? Paracetamol? A glass of wine? Tea? I don’t have any food but I can order in.” 

“Oh, I do appreciate the offer. But no, thank you. I think I should be getting back to…ah…” Aziraphale fumbled for his wallet once again, which still had his cash, fancy that. “Back to my shop, this one here.” Aziraphale handed the lovely creature his business card. 

“You sure you’re alright there? Can’t remember your own address?” He chuckled, before glancing down at the card. “Oh! You’re my new neighbor! Strange place to open a bookshop, this part of town, Mr Fell.” He grinned charmingly, before handing the card back. Aziraphale was careful not to touch his beautifully long fingers. 

“Yes, well. New to town, and all that. So my shop is….?”

“Oh directly across the street, yeah. Pretty convenient. I’ll walk you down. You sure I can’t get you anything first?” The perfect specimen asked again, pausing mid turn. 

“Thank you, but it’s really unnecessary.” 

“Alright.” He shrugged easily, “Your shoes are by the door.” 

“Oh, wonderful,” Aziraphale smiled and padded carefully around him to the door and slipped into his familiar brown oxfords. 

The elevator ride down was silent, and intensely uncomfortable. Serpentine in his grace, this enigmatic man somewhat spawled against the mirrored wall as they moved slowly down, his gaze hidden from Aziraphale. He wanted to look at him so badly, wanted to study those sharp angles, imagine sliding his fingers through red curls, gently pull the black frames from his face. He probably had the most beautiful eyes. 

Impossible, of course. Aziraphale had barely been on his new assignment for one night and he was already getting sidetracked. He needed to focus. 

“Here we are,” His host offered as the elevator slowed to a stop after twelve floors. It opened to a beautiful marble lobby, and the rhythmic thudding sound was a bit more prominent. “Your shop is directly across the street. Can’t miss it. Watch your step.” 

Aziraphale turned to thank this beautiful man, who had remained in the elevator, his slender hand holding the doors ajar. 

“I can’t thank you enough… oh dear, I didn’t get your name.” He added, unable to stop himself. One of his worst habits, indulgence. 

“Anthony J. Crowley, lovely to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you again very soon.” Crowley answered, sharp teeth bared in a dangerous grin. He removed his hand from the doors, and they began to slide closed. “Good evening, angel.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t control his shock, his mouth open in what most certainly couldn’t have been a very attractive expression, and he watched the doors close on Crowley’s beautiful smirking face. 

_ Oh, no. I am in such trouble.  _

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this story like mad and I have five chapters written out, but only these first two are polished enough for posting. I hope you enjoy this one.

Crowley lasted just long enough for the elevator doors to close between them. 

He jerked violently, his spine rolling in a way that would have been impossible for a human body, his tongue sliding passed his teeth as he attempted to chew words back into his mouth.  _ Nnnng!  _ He flung his hands in the air, shaking off  _ something _ offensive. His skin felt too tight, as if he needed to shed it. And he was so sorely tempted. 

_ What in the seven bloody Hells!  _

What was Upstairs playing at, sending that angel to _ his  _ city! Why him! Why one so… charming? Angels were such pompous creatures, easy to rile up and unlikeable. This one was… different. He was so… soft. So warm and bright. 

_ How terribly inconvenient.  _

Crowley felt dirty, like he needed to sleep in a pit of hellfire and burn the light off of his skin. Restless, he rode the elevator back up to his floor where he immediately flung himself out and across the lobby to the other elevator. He stabbed the ground floor button angrily, three, four times until the doors finally closed. Unable to be still for even a moment, he paced the elevator the entire way down, stepping out into the club and sliding passed warm bodies. He ignored the shouts of his name, exploding out the back door and into the alley where his Bently was parked. The headlights flashed for him as he slithered into his comforting leather seats, and the tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb. 

Hell was just as miserable as it always was, and usually Crowley tolerated it with a certain amount of begrudging acceptance, but tonight it's damp darkness was just what he needed. He weaved through the crowds with practiced ease, stopping outside his destination to knock respectfully. 

“Enter.” Came the nasally command from within. 

Lord Beelzebub’s office was wide and dimly lit, the overhead light flickering over their desk. Hastur was standing next to them, leaning over the desk, his gaze traveling from reports up to rest on Crowley. There were others there, standing off to the side, plebeians that Crowley did not recognize or care to acknowledge. 

“Crowley. You’re not due for another eleven days.” Lord Beelzebub stated, eyes boring into him. 

“Ah, yeah, there’s been a development.” 

“Continue,” 

“There’s been an angel stationed right across the street from my club. That can’t be coincidence. Upstairsss is interfering.” He hissed. 

Some murmuring broke out amongst the onlookers, and what sounded suspiciously like snickering. Crowley turned to glare at them. 

“Surely you can handle one measly angel.” Hastur stated, leaning against Lord Beelzebubs desk like some teachers pet. Disgusting suck up. 

“What is the angels name, I’ll make a note of it.” Lord Beelzebub monotoned, shuffling papers around on the desk. 

“Don’t know yet. He has a card in his wallet, says his name is A.Z. Fell. Misnomer, of course.” Crowley answered, and for some stupid reason it didn’t come out quite as antagnistic as he had meant it to. 

Lord Beelzebub froze in their shuffling. They looked at Hastur, who had in turn looked down at them, both of their faces curiously frozen. 

“On second thought, perhaps it would be better to reassign you. How do you feel about Tahiti?” Lord Beelzebub asked, turning back to Crowley with that strange blank expression fixed on their face. 

“Tahi- are you kidding? No! I’ve worked too hard on my club. It’s a huge success. Do you not get my reports? Do you see the temptations I've accomplished over the last ten years? Do you see how many souls I bring in?” He finished, dangerously close to hysteria. 

“Yes, I am aware. But with an angel right across the street… it will be very bad for business.” 

“Well yeeeeah, but, pfft. He’s. Well I mean. He’s not much of an angel, to be honest. He’s all… soft.” Crowley managed, baring his teeth and wiggling his fingers in front of him as though they were covered in slime from Hastur’s toads. “You know, I could probably do a spot of temptation on him. Compromise him, or something. Probably wouldn’t be hard.” Crowley added, shrugging. 

“I don’t believe that would be a good idea.” Lord Beelzebub stated, slowly, as they rose from their chair. 

“What? Of course it is. It’ll be easy. Honestly, they couldn’t have sent a more unqualified opponent. It’ll be a breeze.” Crowley insisted, trying to remain cool and capable. 

Lord Beelzebub and Hastur glanced at each other, something passing silently between them. Crowley struggled to remain still, and keep his irritation to a minimum. 

“Fine.” They finally answered. “But I want  _ weekly _ reports on the situation Crowley.”

“Sure. It’s gonna be fun.” He acquiesced, clenching his teeth as he grinned fereally, scrunching up his nose. “Ciao, guys!” He offered, waving his arm as he turned and slipped from the office, ignoring the muttering that broke out just as the door swung shut.  _ Nnng. Demons.  _

His skin itched furiously as he strode back through Hell’s crowded halls, but he kept his cool until he was back up onto the street, walking towards his car. It came over him slowly, as though his control was like water cupped in his hands, trickling rebelliously through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold it. It must have shown in his jerky movements, because he received more than one strange look before he slid into the dark privacy of the Bently. 

Carefully, Crowley wrapped his long fingers around the steering wheel and stared straight out through the windshield. Motionless. 

Then promptly screeched, jerking the steering wheel as though trying to wrench it from its place on the dash. When it refused to release, he began thrashing around instead, shaking the entire car in his fit. By the time he was finished, he was draped over the front seat of the car, his body bent unnaturally over the center console and the top of his head touching the passenger door. His hair was disheveled, and his chest heaved as he struggled to bring his breathing back under control. He could feel the eyes of humans opening gaping at his car. If there was anything he had never been accused of, it was subtlety. 

The drive back to his flat went quickly, and it was nearing dawn when he pulled the Bently up to the curb in the alley behind his club. It was nearly empty when he stomped back through, ignoring everything around him until he was safely ensconced in the elevator once again. His body had calmed, his movement returning back to fluid instead of jolting, and he was moving as if on autopilot. 

He strode dully into his flat and grabbed his mister on a whim. He glided through silently, spraying his plants, too preoccupied to verbally abuse them. 

Something was going on. Obviously. Beelzebub and Hastur were hiding something from him. Suggesting that he  _ relocate?  _ Absolutely out of the question. He was here  _ first.  _ Crowley quite enjoyed London, and if one of them had to go, it  _ wasn’t going to be him.  _

  
  


No, he would have to get rid of the angel. No matter how… creepily alluring he was. With his ridiculously fluffy hair that Crowley definitely did not touch when he dropped him unceremoniously on his bed just hours before. He had dropped so quickly when the large man had smacked his stupid hand on his shoulder, buckled like a sack of soggy potatos.  _ Of course _ Crowley couldn't just  _ leave _ him there. 

And what else was he supposed to have done with him? He supposed he could have searched his pockets and found his address and dropped him there but, that just felt rude. Crowley was a demon, not a heathen. So of course the only other option he could think of was to just bring him home and wait for him to wake up. Even angels shouldn’t just sleep on the concrete. There was no ulterior motive here. None whatsoever. 

But if he had just… stared a tiny bit, well, there was no harm in that. If he had just… admired the pale cream of his skin against the deep wine red of his sheets well… certainly nothing bad had come of it. If he had carefully slipped his shoes from his feet, admiring the arch of his instep, well. It’s not like he had done anything untoward. That wasn’t really his thing, anyway. It was just… the angel was so nice to look at. So… bright and soft. 

But of course, he had to go. No matter how pretty he was. There wasn’t enough room for both of them in Soho, and this block was  _ his.  _ He had staked his claim. The best way would be to befriend him. That old saying, keep your friends close and, well. 

Crowley sighed, dropping his hand when he realized he had sprayed all the water out of his mister. He tossed it into the sink and stalked towards his room. A shower was called for. Not that he wanted to be presentable or anything. Of course not. Ridiculous. 

  
  
  
  


Aziraphale was still in a daze as he made his way out of the building and across the street to his door. It was unlocked when he tried the knob, though he was vaguely certain it would have been locked for anyone else. As he let himself into the gloom of the shop, the words played themselves again in his mind, as if on repeat. 

_ Good evening, angel.  _

He knew, obviously. It was too much to be coincidence. The question was how? Or why? Something else was going on, something Gabriel or Michael hadn’t cared to tell him. Was the entire assignment rigged? Why was he placed here to begin with? Surely there were more capable angels! He was merely a principality, for Her sake! How in Heaven was he supposed to compromise a demon like  _ that!  _ He was absolutely out of his depth. He would just have to go into head office tomorrow and inform them that this assignment absolutely would not work. 

Sighing, Aziraphale reached over the turn on a lamp near the door as though he had done it a thousand times, and looked into his shop for the first time. 

Which was… _ incredible!  _ Shelves upon shelves of books. Books stacked haphazardly in window sills. Books in boxes. Books on top of the till. Books balanced precariously on lamps and chairs. There was even a book perched on top of one of the ceiling fan blades. Some he recognized from his personal collection that he had tucked away in Ireland. Others he had searched for, for years and years. He let his hand fall on a beautiful first edition of Dorian Gray. 

He made his way slowly through the shop, flipping on more lamps as he gazed around in awe. If he gave up this assignment… they would take all of this away. Aziraphale wrung his hands together fretfully. Perhaps… a few days wouldn’t hurt. Then he would go to the head office. He could read quite a few of these within a few days.

One book from his personal collection caught his eye, sitting next to the till.  _ In Our Time _ , by Hemingway. It had  _ fingerprints!  _

“What in God's great name is the meaning of this!” Aziraphale exclaimed fussily, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and covering his fingers before gingerly picking up one of his prized first editions. Oily prints on the cover! Seething, Aziraphale patted them carefully with the cloth, absorbing the worst of it before he placed it oh so carefully in the glass case under the counter. 

_ The nerve of them!  _

Fretting, he continued to search around the shop for the rest of his personal collection, appalled that whoever had been sent to pick up his things had been so careless. Hadn’t they  _ any idea at all? _

Some time later, the sun had risen and it’s light filtered through the shops dusty windows. The streets began to bustle with people going to and fro, peering curiously into his shop but never stopping to step inside. It was just as well, because Aziraphale was in no mood for customers. He had found all of his books and stored them carefully in the locked glass under the till, along with some others that he had coveted quietly for years. 

He was just stretching the stiffness from his back and glancing at the stairs, wondering whether there was a kettle and tea hiding at the end of them, when the bell above his shop jingled softly. Suppressing a sigh, Aziraphale stepped around the counter and called out;

“So sorry, I am not quite open ye-”

But it wasn’t a customer. It was Crowley. He was standing tall and gazing curiously around the shop, black trousers hugging his long legs in a way that made Aziraphale’s mouth dry, his long coppery curls falling over one shoulder. He still wore his sunglasses, and he had one hand tucked into his pocket, so that one side of his burgundy silk shirt was exposed. His other hand was wrapped around a steaming paper cup, a paper bag tucked into his elbow. 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale breathed, before clearing his throat nervously. 

“Ah, yeah, just wanted to pop in and have a look at your shop. Welcome you to the neighborhood, and all that.” Crowley offered easily, strolling closer until he could drop the paper bag onto the counter. He held out the cup. 

“Oh, thank you but I don’t drink coffee.” Aziraphale admitted, trying not to tug at his own fingers. 

“It’s not coffee, it’s cocoa. You didn’t seem like the coffee type.” Crowley shrugged, still holding the cup out. 

“Oh… thank you.” 

Aziraphale took the cup, grasping it with one hand on the bottom and one hand on the top, so that their fingers didn’t brush. The thought of touching was… he suppressed a shudder. 

“Oh this smells lovely!” He exclaimed, before taking a careful sip. It was the perfect temperature, with hints of nutmeg and vanilla. He had never tasted a better cup of cocoa. 

“Glad you like it. There are crepes in the bag, there is a little shop down the road that does them brilliantly.” Crowley answered, nonchalant as he turned to slowly browse the closest shelf. Aziraphale turned eagerly to grasp the paper bag, reading the cafe's name on the front. 

“But this says Le Peloton,” Aziraphale called, frowning. “I know that cafe, it's in France.”

“Hm?” Crowley hummed, looking away from him. “Oh hey, my new bumper came in!” 

Aziraphale recognized the swift subject change of course, but was confused enough not to mention it. 

“Did it? Car good as new, then?” He turned back to the paper bag and pried it open, using the white tissue paper inside to pull out one of the crepes. Still warm, and smelled positively  _ divine.  _

“Yeah, took it for a drive this morning. Like a dream.” His face had turned to look at the opposite shelf, but Aziraphale had the strangest feeling that those eyes were on him. Warmth spread up his face as he bit into the crepe. He moaned in surprised appreciation, delighted. 

“These are Heavenly!” He exclaimed brightly, after swallowing. 

“Glad you like them,” Crowley replied, his voice a bit strange. “Um you’ve got a bit of…” He motioned at the side of his mouth, “on your mouth there, angel.” 

_ Angel.  _

Aziraphale wiped the side of his lips with his thumb, before popping it into his mouth to lick the powdered sugar away. 

“Apologies,” he breathed. “Don’t you want one?” He asked, willing the flush in his cheeks away. 

“Nah, I already ate.” 

“Ah, I see.” 

The silence stretched between them for a moment, and Aziraphale chewed his bottom lip uncertainly, watching as Crowley ran one long finger along the spine of  _ Moby Dick.  _ He decided to throw caution to the wind. 

“Why do…” He hesitated, and Crowley cocked his head to show he was listening but he didn’t turn to look at him. “Why did you call me angel?” 

“Seriously?” With this, he did turn, gaping at Aziraphale. “Anyone even remotely familiar with the occult would spot you from a mile away. You’re positively flaming.” He added, with an exasperated smirk. 

“Wha-” Aziraphale stopped, scoffed, “Angels aren’t occult. We’re ethereal.” He finished, primly. 

“You’re flaming. You should consider toning it down a bit. You’re nearly blazing.” 

“Is that why you keep wearing sunglasses?”

Aziraphale hadn’t been aware he was going to ask the question until the words were already out of his mouth, and then it was too late to take them back. He swallowed nervously, gripping his cocoa for something to do with his hands. 

“Not quite. I wear them because I tend to freak the humans out, otherwise.” Crowley answered, smirking as he sauntered over towards Aziraphale and slid his glasses halfway down his nose to expose his eyes. 

Aziraphale’s first reaction was shock, quickly followed by a strong sense of… familiarity. Which was impossible, of course. He mentally waved it away. Immediately followed by awe, because as he gazed into Crowley's eyes the slitted pupils swelled, widening until his eyes were nearly all black, as though he was trying to see as much of Aziraphale as possible. They were…  _ so beautiful.  _

Crowley cleared his throat and shoved his glasses back up his nose. It wasn’t until he leaned away that Aziraphale realized how close they had been, merely a few steps between them. 

“So what's your real name then?” Crowley asked, recovering faster than Aziraphale, turning to browse another shelf. 

“Ah, my name is Aziraphale.” He managed. 

“Aziraphale. That’s a bit of a mouth full. I think I'll stick with angel.” Crowley said, before grinning, “A.Z. Fell. Aziraphale. Those idiots have absolutely no imagination do they?” He asked, smiling with mirth. He had such lovely teeth. So bright and… sharp. 

Aziraphale tried to smother his grin, unsuccessfully. 

“No, they do not.” He confided, with a thrill. 

The silence that followed was marginally more comfortable than the one before. Aziraphale felt… strange. Like there was something, some emotion or some great amount of words trying to bubble up into his chest. Like he needed to expel… something. But he didn’t know what. How frustrating. 

“Well, I ought to be off. Got some errands to run. A temptation at a coffee shop over in Ealing.” Crowley offered, glancing out the front windows briefly before turning back to look at Aziraphale. 

Who was abruptly reminded that they were on opposing sides. 

“Ah, right.” He offered faintly. “I would wish you luck, but. Well.” 

“It’s alright, you can wish me luck. I won’t tell.” Crowley grinned at him, sliding his hands into his pockets impishly. Cheeky. 

“Please try not to run over any innocent pedestrians.” He offered instead. 

“No such thing, angel. See you later.” Crowley waved, and turned to go. He was nearly to the door when Aziraphale called out. 

“Crowley!” He burst, wringing his hands together. Crowley paused, and turned his head to the side to show he was listening… but he didn’t look at Aziraphale directly. “Thank you for breakfast.” He managed, with some difficulty. 

Crowley did turn then, and watched him from behind the privacy of his glasses for a moment, before answering. 

“Don’t thank me, angel.” 

The bell jingled softly, and he was gone. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Crowley skipped his temptation. What were they going to do? Fire him?

Instead, he kept driving. Right passed Ealing. 

He stayed on the A40 all the way out of London, windows down, wind ripping through his hair until it was a tangled mess. He kept driving until he was outside of city limits, until all he could see was empty countryside. Not a soul in sight, dammed or not. 

He stopped at a crossroads. The irony. 

There he got out of the Bently, strode calmly around the front of it, and draped himself across the hood. Anyone driving along these roads today would find themselves inexplicably pulled in the opposite direction. He didn’t want to be disturbed. Not for this. 

It was a uncharastically beautiful day, blue skies scattered with white clouds moving at a steady pace. The light breeze blew his hair into his face as he laid there. There were bees somewhere nearby, he could hear them buzzing. 

“I know it’s been a while…” He began hesitantly. “And I know you don’t… listen to me. And that’s fine, you know. I get it, I do. I just… I don’t have anyone else, you know? And it's easy to talk to someone that you know isn’t listening, because then they can’t judge you.” 

He bit his lip, gazing up into the sky, trying to find the courage to continue. 

“Also means I can say whatever I want, without worrying about a great bolt of holy light smiting me off the face of the planet. So, here goes. _ What the bloody hell are you playing at? _ ” Crowley shouted the last, his voice reaching up to the sky in vain. “You let them send _ him _ to thwart me? That sad, low level angel who can’t recognize a demon, even one standing right in front of him? I could have killed him. I could have left him for the humans. I could still kill him. It would be _ ssso easy.” _Crowley cried out, incredulous. “Why send him to his death? I’m a little insulted, is that all I’m worth? Perhaps I should up my game, take more souls, expand a bit. I mean, I should have already. I’ve gotten a bit comfortable. Complacent.” He admitted, more to himself than to the Heavens. 

“Perhaps I should forget the humans… and aim higher. An angel… what if he fell? What if I hooked my claws into him so deep and just… dragged him straight down. Would you let me?” He whispered, closing his eyes against the light. 

“You see, the thing is… this angel. I don’t understand. Why him? Out of anyone… why this particular one? You see, I think... I think I knew him. I think I knew him very well. Thats the only explanation I can think of, for what… I feel when I look at him. It’s painful, you know? Demons can’t… well. You know. We just can’t. But… when I look at him… it’s the closest I’ve felt to Heaven since… Before.” 

Crowley’s skin ached. He struggled with himself, wanting to rub and scratch it all away. 

“I just need… I don’t know what I need.” 

He laid there for a while longer, as the sun slowly made its way across the sky, until it disappeared and the moon rose to take its place. He laid there, gazing at the stars, pining for things he couldn't remember, things he couldn’t fathom. When he was tired of pining, he cheated a bit and pulled a bottle from the air, twirled his finger around the cork until it popped right out and flew away into the dark. 

He lay drinking for hours more, and the bottle never fell below half full. He drank until he couldn’t control his sobbing. Until his inhibitions had faded away, leaving him screaming angrily at the Heavens. He may have said some things that he shouldn’t have. He may have apologized for them after, which would have been even worse. 

When the sun began to creep back up over the horizon, and the bees began buzzing once again, Crowley finally sobered up and tossed the half empty bottle angrily out into the field. Then stomped through the grass to retrieve it. He only littered when there were people nearby to be offended by it. 

He drove aimlessly for hours. By the time he arrived back at his building, it was nearing evening. He walked into his club through the back entrance and was immediately accosted.

“Where the Hell have you been? And what has happened to your hair?” Anathema demanded, stepping out from behind the bar to bodily block his path to the elevator. 

“Out. Business trip.” He stated, trying to step around her. She sidestepped and cut him off again. 

“You look like shit.” She glared up at him. 

“Lovely, thank you. Your input is always appreciated.” He sulked. 

“Come on,” She sighed, grabbing him by his sleeve as she scanned the floor, as though making sure they weren’t being seen. He allowed her to drag him all the way to the restrooms, where she checked that all the stalls were empty before she locked the door behind them. 

“Out with it. What’s going on?”

She was right, he did look like shit. His hair was a disaster. His clothes were wrinkled and covered in road dust. His skin was dull, his lips chapped. He grimaced at his reflection. 

“I just had some things I needed to work out. I’m back. I’m sorry if I… caused any inconvenience.” The words felt gross coming out of his mouth, and he gagged slightly. Anathema rolled her eyes. 

“Idiot. I was worried about you. We both were.” She pulled one of the waiting chairs over and pushed him down into it, and began fussing about with his hair. 

Being touched was, honestly, one of Crowley’s least favorite things. There was a very small list of people who could manhandle him without having an appendage bitten off. Very short list. As in, once person. As in, Anathema. 

Even then, he did not enjoy it. He tolerated it. 

He held still as she ran her fingers through his hair carefully, working through the angry tangles, smoothing it back down into something passing presentable. She touched him the minimum amount, for which he was very grateful. His skin itched and buzzed, and even the silk of his shirt made him want to jump into a fireplace. 

“You know that… whatever it is. You have us. You know that, right?” She said softly, not looking at his reflection and choosing to focus on his hair instead. She had always been a smart girl. 

“Don’t be maudlin. I’m fine.” 

“That’s funny, coming from you.” She snorted. 

But he relaxed a bit, all the same. 

By the time she had finished and sent him up to his flat to shower and make himself presentable, the club was in full swing. Crowley stuck to the edge of the dance floor as he made his way through the room and towards the stairs to the lobby. He paused at the top, to lean over the railing and admire the view. 

The Second Circle was a lovely little idea he had concocted about twelve years ago, when he tired of traveling and wanted a more permanent assignment. The Lords of Hell had taken to it brilliantly and, Crowley had to admit, it had exceeded even his expectations. 

His club had somewhat of a… reputation. Something in the water, something in the wine, that sort of thing. If you were looking for something, something dark and decadent, you could find it at The Second Circle. Crowley was never sure exactly how it had taken off as it did. It was almost as if the club had a life of its own, set into its very foundation. He found it easier not to look too closely. 

The wide open dance floor, always full of writhing bodies, the high ceilings, the wrap around balcony, an aesthetic that had always appealed to him. The room itself _ breathed _. Not as claustrophobic as Hell, but not as exposed as Heaven. A nice balance. Neutral.

Anathema was back in place behind the bar, leaning over its glossy surface to smirk at some besotted young man, and Crowley could only pity him. If only he knew. 

The heavy pulse of music faded drastically as he entered the lobby, shutting the club away behind him. His skull still throbbed from his bender, and even though Anathema had done an admirable job on his hair he still looked as if he had been lying in a field for two days. 

By the time he collapsed into bed, his skin clean and wet hair curling on the pillows, Crowley was quite certain he could happily go to sleep and not wake up for at least a week. So that was exactly what he did. 

  
  
  
  


The earthly plane was irritatingly uncomfortable. It was too bright, too open, too clean. There were no distant screams of agony, no smell of blood and sweat and sulfur, no soothing hum of the presence of their Dark Lord. All in all, Beelzebub was not a fan. 

But the worst of it, by far, had to be the ducks. 

Nasty little things with their beady little eyes, blinking up at Beelzebub and waddling closer to peck at their trouser legs. 

“Begone, foul creature. Shoo,” Beelzebub hissed, kicking out at the creepy little buggers. They were not dissuaded. 

It was in this state that Gabriel found them, Beelzebub stringing verbal abuse at the fat, feathery little bastards as they pecked at their trousers. 

“They want you to _ feed _ them,” He said, pompous and righteous in that way only an angel could, rolling his eyes with exasperation. 

“I’ll feed them, alright. Feed them to my hounds,” Beelzebub threatened, glaring. “You’re late.” They added. 

“Angels are never late.” He countered uncaringly. “What's this about then?” 

Beelzebub glared up at him. 

“You know bloody well what this is about. Your Principality, Aziraphale! Why has he been stationed in London! We agreed to keep them away from each other!” 

“No, you suggested it. I never actually agreed to anything. It’s been nearly a century now, I think the deletion of his memories should stick this time around. Either way, it wasn’t me who gave the order.” He sniffed sulkily. 

“Who then? Have them retract it. It is _ not _ a good idea.” 

“I can’t. It came from… Head Office.”

Beelzebub blinked at him. 

“You _ are _ Head Office, you great feathery buffoon!” 

“Now now Beelz, no need for name calling. Remember our nice little truce?” 

Beelzebub gritted their teeth, wishing they could wrap their hands around Gabriels thick neck and just _ squeeze _for a good long while. 

“And I am Head Office, yes. But this Order came from… Above.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. 

And then there was more uncomfortable silence. 

The ducks pecked at Beelzebubs trousers again. They ignored it. 

“That is… unfortunate.” They finally replied. 

“Quite.” Gabriel agreed, clipped. 

“What are we supposed to do, then? I can try to transfer Crowely, but there will be questions.” 

“No, don’t. Best to let it play out. She has Her reasons, and I’m in no hurry to muck about with Her Plan, whatever it is.” Gabriel said, positively scowling. 

Unfortunately, Beezlebub could only agree. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Azirphale had a bit of a… dilemma. 

He had been on his new assignment for nearly two weeks, long enough to come to love his dusty little bookshop. Long enough to grow accustomed to where the mugs were kept in his tiny kitchen, and to learn just how long the kettle took to boil. He had a brief but pleasant conversation with the owner of the shop next to his, something catering to humanity’s more base desires. He had strolled up and down his street, exploring the cafe two blocks down, the florist just a little further. He had walked Soho Square Gardens and observed God’s favorite children. It was all so… wonderful. 

But he had yet to understand what he was supposed to do about Crowley. 

He hadn’t even seen the demon since he had sauntered out of his shop that early morning after inexplicably bringing Aziraphale breakfast. All the way from _ France _ . Not that he hadn’t tried, of course. Aziraphale had kept a watchful eye on the opposite building, and many humans came and went- _ really, how many people can live in one building! _ -but no Crowley in sight. Aziraphale had even glanced down the side alley to have a quick peek at the car he had heard so much about. There it remained, parked against the curb in all its gleaming glory. So where was he? 

Aziraphale was starting to consider the uncomfortable possibility that he might have to seek the demon out. He had to have something to take back to head office. But if he did, he would have to have some type of plan. It had become obvious very quickly that Aziraphale was by no means capable of… killing him. No. But neither was he comfortable with the idea of someone else killing Crowley, which begged the question; if Aziraphale refused, would they replace him with someone else? Some other angel, with no strange familiarity and a loose moral trigger? The thought terrified him greatly. 

No, probably best that Aziraphale kept up the appearance of working diligently to bring about Crowley’s demise, so they didn’t send someone more inclined. So where did that leave him, and how was he supposed to act around Crowley?

It was this question, burning a hole in his heavy heart, that brought Aziraphale to the little cafe down the block from his shop one dreary morning. There was a light drizzle, just enough of damp for everyone to choose to sit inside rather than out on the patio. With a small miracle, Aziraphale gifted the white sunbleached umbrella over his outside table. Without fear of stray drops falling where they weren’t welcome, the privacy was quite nice. Any pedestrians nearby were huddled against the drizzle, hurrying to their destination to get out of the cold rain. No one paid any attention to Aziraphale as he sat drinking his cocoa, mulling over his problems.

At least, no one but a wandering demon clutching a black umbrella. 

“Mind if I join you?” Crowley asked, giving Aziraphale a start. 

“Oh! Crowley! Hello, what are you doing here?” Aziraphale replied, who had been thinking about the demon with such strength he was almost worried that he had summoned him himself. 

“Came for a coffee. I just woke up.” Crowley answered casually, his sentence punctuated with a rather wide yawn. _ But goodness, those teeth. _

“Ah, well then. I suppose,” Aziraphale glanced around nervously, “I doubt anyone of import would be out watching us in this weather. Pull up a chair, please,” 

Crowley folded his umbrella and practically _ melted _ into the chair. He turned his head in the direction of the cafe, gazing through the window with his head tilted to the side, as he twitched his long fingers and summoned a steaming cup of black coffee. 

“So,” He drawled, “How’s work?”

“Oh, the usual. I’ve gotten a few blessings in, but I’m still settling in, you know how it goes. And… your…?” 

“Oh yeah, all good here. The usual. Funnily enough though, when I went in to report last week, they tried to reassign me.” 

“They did what?” Aziraphale frowned. “Why?”

“Not sure. I guess it had something to do with you.”

Aziraphale froze, setting his cocoa down on the table top carefully as he tried to appear casual. 

“What do you mean?” He asked. 

“I mean I went in to report as usual, told them a new angel had moved in across the street. It's not unusual, you know? To have two of us stationed close together. Gotta keep the balance, and all that. But when they asked for your name to make a note of it in their records I told them the name you had been assigned, the one that was on the card you showed me. Everyone just went kind of… strange. Like they knew you. And then they tried to reassign me. So what's the deal? Are you some kind of big shot Upstairs?” Crowley finished, leaning back against his chair with one arm draped over the back, lounging as if he was sitting on Lucifer’s own throne instead of some damp rusted cafe chair. Aziraphale, caught unaware by the question, could not help but giggle. 

“Oh, me? No, no not even close. I’m just a Principality. Nothing special about me at all. In fact, when they gave me my orders I asked ‘why me’, you know? Why not send someone more capable. They just told me it was ‘classified’.” He finished, whispering the last bit nervously.

Crowley, who had been watching him intently from behind his dark glasses, frowned. 

“Well I doubt that. They must think you’re capable of _ something _ , if they sent you here. I _ am _somewhat of a big shot, myself.” He smirked, sipping his coffee without taking his eyes from Aziraphale. 

“I suspected as much.” Aziraphale sighed, sadly. 

“Well, yeah but. I mean, no reason to get all... “ He waved a hand in Aziraphale’s direction, mouth twisting as though he was sucking a lemon. “Look, I’ll take it easy on you. It’s only fair, me having the home ground advantage and all that.” 

“I don’t think your side would like that very much.” Aziraphale managed, fingers tugging at his coat in a nervous habit. 

“Yeah well, what they don’t know won’t hurt them, will it? We could help each other out, you know, on the sly. You get in a few, I get in a few. We stay even. That way no one gets reprimanded. We could have our own little arrangement.” 

_ Arrangement. _

Why did that word feel like a punch to the gut? Aziraphale was overcome with such strong emotion that for a moment, he couldn’t even breathe. Not that he needed to, but he enjoyed it, in a general sense. Suddenly being unable to was intensely disconcerting. 

“Angel? You alright?” Crowley asked, his body gone still and taught, as though the emotion in Aziraphale was so loud that he could hear it from across the table. 

“Yes,” he managed to gasp, before he cleared his throat. “Yes, I am quite alright.”

An arrangement. A secret, between just the two of them. There was something… something there. Aziraphale was slowly beginning to realize a terrifying possibility. It was too much to consider right now, with those eyes on him. He firmly put his suspicions away and forced himself to smile. 

“I… I think we could manage something like that.” 

“Okay… great.” Crowley said, hesitant in a way that suggested it was not, in fact, great at all. 

“I’m sorry, you just reminded me of something else and I was distracted. I would be happy to work something out. I rather enjoy this city so far, and I’d hate to be transferred.” 

“Right. Well, me either. So that settles that. I’ll keep up with my temptations, you keep up with your blessings. We stay in touch regularly, make sure neither of us goes too far over. Sound alright?”

“That sounds… perfect.” Aziraphale answered, thankful that his voice sounded normal. He took a sip of his cocoa for something to do with this hands. 

“Great. Well I’m going to walk back. Care to join me?” 

“Oh, well. Yes, I suppose I will.” He smiled, glancing around once before he stood, adjusting his coat and pulling his own umbrella from where it had been leaning against his chair. He unfolded it and stepped away from the table, waiting as Crowley began to unfold his as well. 

“Oh, you know, you could always just… share mine. It’s plenty big enough. Additionally, our walk might be a bit clumsy with our umbrellas fighting over space.” Aziraphale smiled at the thought. 

“Yeah? Well, alright.” He seemed to hesitate for just a moment before stepping right up into Aziraphale’s space, close enough that Aziraphale could smell him. He smelled smokey, and a bit like salt and rain and earth and something else completely indescribable. He smelled just like his silk sheets, but better. Aziraphale blinked through the sudden clenching pain in his chest. Something shoved insistently at the back of his mind, and he shoved it back down._ Later. _

“Shall we?” He asked. 

“Lead on,” Crowley answered, looking dead ahead of them and not anywhere near Aziraphale’s person. 

It was more comfortable than it had any right to be. They strolled along easily, as if they had been doing it for years. The rain came steadily down but, perhaps by some demonic intervention, Aziraphale’s oxfords and trousers remained clean and dry. 

“You know, I've been living across the street from you for less than two weeks, and I must say your building is dreadfully crowded.” Aziraphale spoke up as their respective homes came into view. 

“Crowded? What do you mean?”

“I mean, there are always people going in and out! Especially at night! Honestly my dear, if I had to deal with that many- Crowley? Are you alright?” 

Aziraphale stopped suddenly and backtracked, holding the umbrella out a bit to cover the both of them. Crowley, in a moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness, had tripped and nearly fallen over. Aziraphale held his other hand out, awkwardly hovering and wondering if he ought to steady the man, but wasn’t sure if his touch would be welcome. 

Crowley recovered himself quickly however, jerking his jacket straight and shoving his glasses back up his nose. 

“Really angel, can’t just spring something like that on a guy, come on.” He snarled, refusing to look in his direction. 

Aziraphale stopped, mouth open in confusion, before the realization hit him. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It just… came out. My apologies, it won’t happen again.” He stammered, awkwardly. 

“Well don’t go to any trouble over it. It was… fine. It just surprised me.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Crowley. I’ll call you by your name and keep it at that.” Aziraphale insisted, fretting. 

“_ Aziraphale.” _ Crowley growled, lisping slightly. “I said it was fine. Please, do continue _ angel. _” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, and but oh God, the pain in his chest. He was full of urges, of emotion, of _ something- _

“What in the seven Hells are you _ doing?” _Crowley hissed, looking him up and down as if trying to find the source of whatever was radiating off of him so strongly. 

“Nothing! Terribly sorry my dear, ah, I mean-”

“Don’t! I said it’s fine!”

“I know you did but-”

“_ Angel. _ ” Crowley bit out suddenly, and his long fingers wrapped tightly around Aziraphale’s wrist, on top of his coat. The touch burned all the way up his arm. Perhaps burned was the wrong word. But there was definitely heat. “You can call me… _ whatever you want _ . Do you understand? Please tell me you understand because this conversation is making me feel like I need to do some _ reeeeally awful _ things and-”

“I understand,” Aziraphale breathed, gazing up at Crowley’s glasses helplessly. From so close, he could see the long pupils behind them. They were fixed on his own. 

“Good. That’s done, then.” Crowley released him quite suddenly, leaving him so achingly bereft. “I’m going inside. Do be careful crossing the street. I don’t want to have to take credit for your untimely discorporation but there is no way I could let something like that pass without using it to my advantage. See ya around, angel.” 

Crowley turned and nearly fled into the building, leaving Aziraphale standing dazed on the pavement. The rain began to soak through his socks.

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to add once more that I am, unfortunately, American. So I apologize for any mistakes in American lingo vs British English. I do the best I can. 
> 
> There will be a few songs in this story and I'll try to make a note of them in case anyone wants to listen to them, for context. That is something I like to do, when I find a story with a song/songs in it. The song lyrics in this chapter are from; 
> 
> Problems, by Mother Mother
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my new friend, Foxx.

Crowley, who was _ not _throwing a fit, flung himself into his flat and glared at the stereo until it jumped to life and began blaring something appropriately loud and upbeat. He fell onto the couch, shoes still on his feet, and flung an arm over his face. 

** _You and me, we’re not the same..._ **

Crowley, snarling, jolted upright and shouted at the stereo; “Not that one! Next!” The stereo screeched to a stop. And then the song restarted. 

** _You and me, we’re not the same…_ **

** _I am a sinner, you are a saint…_ **

“Oh for _ somebody’s _sake!” He screeched, flipping angrily and shoving his face into the leather and shoving his hands over his ears. 

** _When we get to the pearly gates…_ **

** _You’ll get the green light…_ **

** _I’ll get the old door in the face..._ **

“NNNGG!” Crowley flailed away from the couch, not bothering to straighten his clothes or his hair, and stomped into the kitchen to snatch his mister off of the counter before he took to assaulting his plants. 

** _I’ve found love in the strangest place…_ **

** _Tied up and branded, locked in a cage…_ **

“Where did all of this dust come from! Disgusting! I grew you better than this!” He screamed at his Bird of Paradise. 

** _I’m a loser, a disgrace..._ **

** _You’re a beauty..._ **

** _A luminary in my face..._ **

“Are you kidding! I am God Damned gorgeous!” Crowley screeched at his stereo before angrily turning to mist one of his Pothos. 

** _I got it all, and not a lot, I got a lot less than a lot…_ **

** _I’ve got problems, not just the ones that are little…_ **

** _It’s those people problems, it’s something to consider…_ **

** _When you come to dinner at my place… _ **

“Oh like _ that’ll _ever happen!” Crowley seethed, overwatering his Peace Lily. 

** _...it’s something to consider…_ **

** _When you come to dinner at my place… _ **

_ “Why are you doing this!?!” _Crowly screamed, before he threw his mister and it collided noisily against the floor to ceiling window and shattered. 

“Crowley! What the Hell is going on!” 

Crowley spun around, chest heaving, to see Anathema standing in the entryway, her spare key still in her hand. 

“They started it!!” Crowley screeched, unable to control himself, pointing at the stereo. 

Anathema’s narrowed eyes traveled from him to the stereo. 

** _I’ve got problems, not just the ones that are little…_ **

“I’ll show you problems!” He growled, making to go around the couch and get to the stereo. 

“Okay, okay! You sit down!” Anathema ordered, pointing to the couch. 

Reluctantly, Crowley sat. Anathema turned and flipped the stereo off. The sudden silence was deafening. She walked slowly towards the couch, studying him as she sat down, with a foot of space between them. 

“Now. Tell me what's going on.” 

“There isss an _ angel, _ Anathema!” 

“Okaaay… can you elaborate, please?”

“He’s been assigned to the shop across the street. Which is fine, I’ve dealt with angels before. Not a big deal. But it's _ thisss angel _ . He’s a _ problem.” _

“Why is this one a problem?”

_ “I don’t know!” _ Crowley shouted, falling back against the couch and slapping both of his hands against his face. His shoulders wouldn’t stop bloody shaking. 

“Crowley,” She tsked softley and _ ohhh no, not that tone, she had better fucking not- _“You like him.” 

“I am a demon!” He snarled, jumping up to nearly spit in her face, “I do not like anything! I am evil and destruction incarnate! I am-”

“Are you in love with him?” She whispered incredulously. 

“Wh-” Crowley could not breathe. He could not. Literally. The air would not come, his chest was bursting, why couldn’t he-

“Crowley, stop! Stop, calm down, listen to me-” Anathema reached out but, terrified, Crowley jerked away from her. 

“No, don’t touch me, I can’t- I’m not- I’m not capable-”

_ SMACK _

A red, throbbing handprint across his cheek and he stopped, something in his chest releasing. His eyes _ burned. _

“Better?” Anathema asked. 

“Yes. A bit.” He sniffed. 

“Now, calmly please, tell me how this happened. From the beginning. I’ll get you some coffee.” She stood and walked behind the couch to the kitchen. He suspected it was more for the allusion of privacy than of actually getting him anything, but he appreciated it all the same. 

“His name is Aziraphale. He got mugged the other night and-”

“Wait, an angel got mugged?”

“Are you going to shut up and let me tell the story or not?”

“Right. Sorry. Continue, please.” Crowley could hear her putting the kettle on the stovetop. 

“He got mugged a couple of weeks ago. He was unconscious, so I just brought him back here until he woke up. I knew what he was, kind of hard to miss. I’ve had encounters with angels before, usually goes better if you try to let them know immediately that you don’t plan to do anything drastic so I figured I’d let him sleep if off then we could chat a bit, build up an acquaintance, agree to stay out of each other's way. 

“But he was… there was something about him. Like I knew him from somewhere. Which is impossible, because I’ve never met him. Then when I went to report to head office, Lord Beelzebub went all funny and it was like they knew him too! And I'm just so confused, because he makes me… when I’m near him I just… nng.” 

Crowley scraped his tongue across his teeth in frustration and yanked his glasses from his face so that he could rub at his burning eyes. 

“Okay,” Anathema began as she sat and handed him a cup of steaming coffee, “Is it possible that he reminds you of someone else?”

“No. Absolutely not. I’d know.”

“Is it possible that it’s all in your head? Wishful thinking or something?”

“Are you asking me if I’m making it up?” Crowley demanded, offended. 

“Just answer me. Is it possible?”

“Hells no! Even _ my _imagination isn’t that good!” 

Okay, well then. It’s simple. Whenever you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” 

“What is that? I’ve heard that somewhere-”

“Focus, Crowley.”

“What does that mean, then?”

“You know him. You’ve met him before, and you’ve somehow forgotten him.” 

And that was it, that was the crux of the issue. Crowley _ already knew that. _ It was impossible to _ feel _so much in the angels presence, but he did. But it’s not like Crowley made it a habit of waltzing around with angels, so he had to have known him before the Fall. All of his memories of his time in Heaven had been taken from him, of course. But having Heaven taken from him was just that, those memories were gone, not buried. 

When he was with Aziraphale it was like every smile, every fidgeting tug of his jacket, every surprised blink of his eyes; it was like it had always been there. It felt like going home. 

“But how?” He whispered. 

“You would know better than I would. I don’t know how Hell does things. Maybe they took the memories from you.”

“No, you don’t understand. I- my memories of… Heaven,” He choked out, “were taken when I Fell. Not suppressed, they were yanked out of my head. So if I knew him before my Fall, then memories of him should have been taken too.”

“I don’t know, Crowley. Maybe these memories are different. Maybe they were too powerfully integrated with your mind to be taken without majorly damaging you.”

“More powerful than Heaven?” He asked, unable to do more than whisper. 

Anathema only shrugged sadly. 

  
  
  


It was still raining that afternoon, a constant dreary shower somewhere between a drizzle and a downpour. Aziraphale stood in front of the window of his shop with a cup of steaming tea, gazing out passed the drops and towards the building opposite. He could still feel the heat from Crowley’s fingers around his wrist. 

_ You can call me… whatever you want. _

_ Angel. _

Aziraphale had heard of Crowley, obviously. There weren’t that many angels who fell and became the Original Demons, before Lesser Demons were added to Hell. Crowley, The Temptation, The First Sin. He was rather famous among the angels, for his role in The Garden. Aziraphale had been there, guarding the Eastern Gate, but the Great Serpent had slipped passed him. 

Crowley, for all his incredible reputation, also never caused too much trouble for his side. He was consistent, he kept his temptations small and relatively harmless. Things that were more annoying than evil. That was the gossip among angels, anyway. So for Heaven to so suddenly want to eliminate him, and to send _ Aziraphale _to do it… it just didn’t make any sense. 

The most troublesome aspect of the entire situation was that… Crowley was not a stranger to him. Aziraphale had suspected, but was growing more and more certain with every weak flutter of recognition in his breast with every encounter. Something was nudging insistently at the edge of his unconscious mind, only to slip away when Aziraphale reached for it. It was positively maddening. 

Aziraphale sighed, breathing in the steam from his tea, before he lifted his face towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. 

“God, I just wanted to say… I know You have a reason. I know You have a plan, and it isn’t for us to understand. I wouldn’t question You. But… I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t wish I knew what You wanted me to do here. Am I supposed to bring about his destruction? Or… is it something else? Because what I’m feeling… it isn’t destructive.” Aziraphale whispered, eyes still closed, chest aching. “I just… I need a sign. Something. Anything. Please. Amen.” He added the last word, so silent that his lips merely formed the word, before he lowered his face to gaze out the window once more. 

He was so lost that a mere handful of seconds later when his shop’s doorbell jingled, Aziraphale jumped so hard that he spilled tea all down his front. 

“Oh, dear,” He tsked, gazing down at his waistcoat in remorse. 

“Hello? Anyone about?” A woman's voice called out. 

“Just a moment!” Aziraphale called out, sighing as he miricaled away the tea, agitated by the way it _ looked _ gone but he could still _ feel _ it there. He took his empty teacup back to the counter and set it down on its saucer then turned to greet his customer. 

A young woman, American and quite pretty, with long dark hair and spectacles. Her aura practically screamed Witch, but she didn’t feel antagonistic. More… curious. 

“What can I do for you?” He asked kindly. 

“I was wondering if you had any books on prophecy?” She inquired, glancing around the shop casually. 

“Oh yes! Come, let me show you.” 

Aziraphale led her to the back of the shop and unlocked one of his cases, giddy with the prospect of showing his collection to someone who would appreciate it properly. And she certainly did, asking intelligent questions and showing the appropriate amount of awe. Most importantly, she made absolutely no mention to wanting to purchase. 

“What about _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter _?” She asked after a while of the two of them pouring over aged pages. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed as he closed and locked the case with his books safely inside. “I’m afraid I don’t have that one. Only one ever survived, you see. I’ve never had the good fortune of finding it.” He admitted sadly. 

“Hmm.” She offered quietly, leisurely following him to the counter. She stopped as he turned and they stared at each other over the till. “Mr. Fell,” She began hesitantly, “My name is Anathema Device,” she reached into her bag and pulled out a large, thick volume with yellowing pages and set it gently on the counter. Aziraphale stood, staring down at the book in shock. He reached his hand out slowly, fingers shaking, but her hand slid over its cover protectively and he pulled his own back, glancing back up to her face. 

“I am a friend of Crowley’s.” She said, dark eyes boring into his own. 

“Ah,” He swallowed, glancing between her face and her hand covering _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. _

“I am Agnes’s descendant. This book is mine, by right of inheritance. I know what you are, and I know that you could take it from me by force, but you won’t.” She said confidently. 

“You’re a friend of Crowley’s,” Aziraphale repeated, his attention torn so miserably between the book, and it’s reason for being in his shop with this woman. 

“Yes. A good friend. His only friend, I think.”

“I feel you’re trying to arrive at a point?”

“Yes, I wanted to ask a favor of you.” 

“A favor?” He repeated, frowning. 

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and Aziraphale glanced once again between the book and her face. 

“What favor would that be?” 

“Just… don’t hurt him.” 

Aziraphale stopped, his mouth open slightly, before he looked slowly up to the ceiling in fascination. 

_ Is this You? Is this Your Sign? _

“Mr. Fell?” 

“Ah, yes, so sorry! Miss Device, was it?” He asked brightly, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. 

“Yes,” She replied, a frown on her pretty face as she glanced up at the ceiling. 

“Well Miss Device, I must say that Crowley is lucky to have a friend like you. Also, my intentions are nothing less than honorable, I assure you.” 

“Great.” She said briskly. “On that note, he likes wine, plants, music, his car, and… well, thats about it. He’d never admit it, but he would love another friend. Someone who understands him. What he is. And what he isn’t.” She added cryptically. 

“My dear, are you… trying to set us up?” He asked, incredulous and, reluctantly, charmed. 

“Absolutely.” She admitted, smiling. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. What a charming young woman, indeed. 

“I’m going to leave this here, _ on loan _,” She added quite firmly, “as a… peace offering. A show of goodwill. Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Fell.” She finished, finally letting the book go. 

“Please, call me Aziraphale.” He asked, holding out his hand with a smile. 

  
  


**What are you wearing tonight? -Witchy Bitch**

**I dunno, why -sent**

**Dress up a bit. Do your hair. -Witchy Bitch**

**Why? -sent**

**Just trust me. Do your thing. -Witchy Bitch**

Crowley frowned at his mobile, sticking his tongue out at it briefly before dropping it onto the counter to look at his reflection. He had long since calmed down after his… stressful morning. Dress up a bit? As opposed to what? He always dressed to kill, dammit. She was probably planning to introduce him to another one of her occultist friends. 

_ Ugh. _

Crowley stripped easily, mouthing various obsenties to himself about nosey witches, and stepped into his shower. Bathing was one of those things that he didn’t technically need to do, but it felt good. So why not? 

The heat on his skin, the pressure on his muscles, the steam curling his hair before soaking through to make it fall straight. A good hot shower always left him feeling invigorated, rejuvenated. Once finished he tempted his hair into perfect dry curls that fell over his shoulders, and dressed impeccably in his usual black trousers with a soft black mesh shirt, finishing with a thin red scarf made of silk, in place of his usual grey, and a black jacket. He tossed his hair over his shoulder, turning to study himself in the mirror. 

Just because he didn’t want any of Anathema’s wide eyed friends, that didn’t mean Crowley didn’t want them to want _ him. _He was the the Original Temptation, after all, and he had a reputation to protect. 

Deeming himself rather fit, he made his way out of his flat, passing a threatening glare at his plants on his way out. 

His club was in full swing, the deep beats thrumming deliciously through his bones. He smirked at familiar faces, waved at the shouts of his name. Unlike the last few times he had been through, this time he _ wanted them to see him. _

The Lust in the air was electrifying. The Envy, the Greed. Crowley breathed it in, felt it insinuate itself into the sway of his hips, felt it soak into his skin.

Anathema was behind the bar, working quickly to fill orders. She smiled at him as he casually leaned against the bar. 

“Will this do?” He drawled, looking out among the crowd. 

“Probably.” She grinned, before turning to a young woman a few feet away to hand her some pink fruity monstrosity with a little umbrella. 

“Probably? You can tell whatever little friend you’ve got coming tonight that you’ve rethought it, and that I am way too much for them to handle. They’ll be better off with… all that.” Crowley added, wiggling his fingers out at the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Anathema replied, her eyes wide with faux innocence. 

Crowley sneered at her, but didn’t deign to respond. 

He slid his serpentine body onto a barstool, leaning against the bar on one elbow and sat back to observe. Anathema wordlessly placed a glass of red next to his arm, then strolled along the bar to answer the line of customers. As he waited for whatever she had planned for him, because really, he had nothing better to do, he picked out vulnerable souls in the crowd. One, a soft woman with wide hips and big blue eyes, arrived at the bar, heaving, asking for water. She popped an ice cube in her mouth and watched her companion, her friend, dance happily. Brown hair, wedding ring, plump lips, face flushed. Crowley smiled, then leaned over. 

“You know, I think she likes you too.” He whispered in her ear. She jumped, looking up at him with startled eyes. “There is a storage closet under that staircase. It’s unlocked.” He said, shrugging one shoulder, before turning away and taking a sip of his wine. He felt, rather than saw, her rejoin her friend and slowly coax her towards the staircase with a dance. 

“There’s no storage closet under those stairs.” Anathema frowned, resting against the bar behind him as she watched both women migrate slowly across the room, hips swaying together. 

“There is now.” Crowley countered. 

And the night went on. 

It was some time later when Anathema cleared her throat behind him, and he twisted his body away from the dance floor to face her properly. She removed his empty wine glass and replaced it with two fresh ones, before filling each halfway with one of his favorite reds. 

“Drinking on the job, are you? Whatever will your boss say?” He smirked, sliding his fingers around the stem with ease. 

“Oh, it's not for me.” She assured him, grinning cheekily, before turning away. 

“I see now why so many people are constantly going in and out of your building,” came the nervous chuckle from behind him. Crowley jumped so hard he nearly spilled his bloody wine. “A club, I should have known. Yours, I presume? The Second Circle. Clever.” Aziraphale offered, hands pressed to his waistcoat as he rocked slightly on his heels. 

He looked so terribly out of place, with his outdated wardrobe and his fluffy white hair, next to so many scantily clad sinners. He may as well have been a polar bear in a desert full of writhing snakes. 

“What in the bloody Hell are you doing here, angel?” Crowley exclaimed. 

“Ah, thank you Anathema,” Aziraphale smiled at her as she gently nudged the other glass towards him from behind Crowley. 

“How do you two know each other?” Crowley demanded, feeling very left out. 

“She stopped by to talk shop,” Aziraphale replied, looking so very pleased about it, “Did you know she has the rarest book of Prophecy in the world?” He whispered the last excitedly. 

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Crowley sniffed. “She’s a witch.” 

“She’s a lovely young woman.” Aziraphale insisted, glancing over at Anathema who had retreated to the other side of the bar to attend a customer. 

“Came here to see her then?” Crowley asked lightly. 

“Of course not. I came here to see you.” Aziraphale answered, looking up at him with a small frown. “I was going to ask… well, I had hoped you might have dinner with me.” 

Crowley, who had been taking a sip of his wine, spluttered gracelessly. 

“What? Me?” He asked, incredulous. 

“Of course, you. You know this city, you know which places are good. I’m a bit of a food enthusiast and I wouldn’t mind if you… you know. Showed me around a bit.” 

“I see,” Crowley stated simply, to buy a bit of time to think, before adding, “Gluttony, angel?” 

“Yes, not one of my finer attributes. Or so I’ve been told.” Aziraphale answered, lowering his gaze with a sad smile, his hands pressing into his soft stomach. 

_ Well that absolutely will not do. _

“Angel,” Crowley began grandly, “I’m going to take you to the best place in town.” Crowley downed the rest of his wine with one large swallow and set his empty glass down on the bar. 

“Oh? Where is that?”

“You’ll see. Come on,” Crowley held out his arm, motioning for Aziraphale to go ahead of him, but was careful not to touch him. They left the club through Crowley’s back entrance, coming out onto the damp pavement of the alleyway where he kept his Bentley. 

“This is your car? It’s beautiful.” Aziraphale gazed appreciatively over its glossy form, and Crowley couldn’t help but take advantage of his preoccupation. He was so bright and warm, his eyes twinkling in the street lights. His light tan coat fell just passed his knees, but didn’t hide the softness of his corporeal form. Softness that he had apparently been taught to be ashamed of. 

“Yes, it is.” He agreed, looking away from the angel to admire his car. He walked around to the passenger side and held the door open. The shy smile Aziraphale gave him just before he slipped into the seat and allowed Crowley to close the door made him want to swallow his own tongue. 

“I’ve always wanted to try this,” Aziraphale said excitedly as Crowley slithered into his own seat. 

“What? You mean you’ve never ridden in a car before?” 

“No, I’ve always just use public transport, Or flown. Or teleported.” 

“Oh angel, you’re in for a treat.” Crowley grinned wickedly. 

And that was all the warning Crowley gave him. 

The drive to the Ritz took half the time it should have, the Bently flying through traffic like a literal bat out of Hell. Crowley couldn’t have been more pleased by Aziraphales white knuckled grip on the dashboard and door. The angel spent half of the ride with his eyes closed, and the other half complaining endlessly. 

“Oh dear me, Crowley watch out for those bins!”

“That is a pedestrian Crowley, they have the green light!”

“That speed limit sign said forty-five, not eighty-nine!”

“You’re going to get us both discorporated!” 

“That was a stop sign, Crowley!”

“My dear, _ please! _” 

Needless to say, at the end of the ride Aziraphales face was flushed and his lips were red and swollen from where he had been biting them. It was a good look on him. 

When Aziraphale stumbled out on the pavement next to where they had illegally parked, heaving, hand on his chest, Crowley couldn’t help but grin. 

“That… that was…” 

“Invigorating, right?”

“That was terrifying! You drive like some mad man! Like, like some-”

“Demon?” 

Aziraphale paused and looked over the car at him, and Crowley was very careful to keep his smile bland. Aziraphale cleared his throat. 

“So where are we?” He asked, straightening his clothes as he glanced around. 

“The Ritz,” Crowley answered breezily, walking around the car to join Aziraphale on the pavement. 

“Oh! I’ve always wanted to come here!” 

“Never been? Really?” 

“Sadly, no. I’ve never been permitted to work in London until this assignment. I’ve been all over the earth, of course. But I haven’t been to England for the last five-hundred odd years.” Aziraphale admitted as they walked through the beautiful entry of the hotel. Crowley led him along confidently. 

“Huh, that’s funny. I’ve been in London for the last five-hundred years or so. Bit of an odd coincidence innit?” He offered, forcing a smile. 

“Yes…” Aziraphale said, smiling in return, but with the barest hint of what might have been strain, “Odd indeed.”

Crowley led him to The Secret Garden Bar. It was absolutely beautiful, with candles on the white table tops, surrounded by lush greenery. He found himself fascinated with the wonder in Aziraphale’s eyes. 

He performed a quick and discreet temptation on the host and got them the best table. Aziraphale sat primly, adjusting his coat just so, clapping his hands together with excitement as he was handed his menu. Crowley, who did not bother to touch his menu because he knew it by heart, splayed back in his chair effortlessly, legs spread and one elbow back to rest over the back of his chair. He let some of his hair fall over one shoulder, because he knew that was how he looked best. And he very much wanted to look his best. 

“Oh, I don’t know what to choose! It all looks so scrumptious!” 

“So choose more than one.” 

“I can’t do that. What would people think?”

“They would think you’re hungry.” Crowley answered, frowning. Aziraphale just tsked at him, fretting over his menu. When the waiter came back for their order, he ordered the lobster, with that same sad smile. 

Crowley told the waiter, very loudly and irate, that he would have a sample serving of everything on the menu, because he was _ absolutely starving. _

“White or red, angel?” He asked calmly then, looking to Aziraphale.

“Ah, red, I think.” 

“Your best red as well. Bring the bottle.” Crowley ordered, handing over both of their menus. 

“That was unnecessary, my dear.” Aziraphale said softly, once their waiter had left in a hurry. 

“No idea what you mean. I am very hungry.” Crowley retorted, relaxing back into his chair and glancing around the garden. It was a lovely place. Strangely, Crowley could smell apples. And he could have sworn he had heard a bit of thunder, but when he glanced up the skies were clear. 

“So why not London?” Crowley asked, once their waiter had arrived with their wine and left again. 

“Pardon?”

“I mean, why haven’t you been allowed to work in London until now?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. I requested, of course. A few times. But my requests were always denied.” 

Crowley, grateful once more for the privacy his dark glasses afforded him, allowed his gaze to scan the angel indulgently while he was turned away. His cheeks were still pink from the drive, his hair the perfect representation of fluffy clouds. The buttons on his velvet waistcoat strained just a bit as he leaned forward to speak lowly;

“To be frank…” He began, before glancing around them nervously, “I think there is… something going on. Upstairs, I mean.” 

“Going on?”

“With my assignment. You see, when they gave it to me they… they acted very strange.” 

“Strange how?” Crowley asked, attentively. 

“I’m not really sure. But apparently I was requested. Me, specifically! From the Top!” Aziraphale whispered loudly, words rushing out of his mouth quickly. 

“From the Top? You mean like…” Crowley discreetly pointed upwards. Aziraphale nodded. 

They fell silent as the waiter returned with their wine. He placed two glasses silently before them and poured a taste into each glass, allowing both Crowley and Aziraphale to approve it before pouring a full glass and leaving the bottle on the table. He left them again. 

“So… if the Top requested you specifically… they must have had a specific job in mind for you to do? Not just the usual blessings and miracles.” Crowley stated, not quite asking. Just… fishing. He gently swirled his wine in it’s glass, watching the angel over the top of it. 

“They did,” Aziraphale admitted, looking away from Crowley with obvious nervousness. He didn’t elaborate. 

“Well.” Crowley said, for lack of anything else to say. “I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.”

“Thats the problem. I won’t.” Aziraphale sighed, morose. 

“Of course you will. You’ll do a great job, I’ll help you if you like. No one needs to know.” Crowley offered, biting the inside of his cheek to stop more tratorous words from spilling from his lips. 

“I do appreciate the offer, but that’s impossible. I’m simply not capable of what they want me to do.” Aziraphale smiled sadly, without a trace of doubt on his face. 

“What will you do, then?” Crowley asked. 

“I’m not sure. Enjoy London while I can, I expect.” 

This bothered Crowley much more than he was willing to admit. He had been an agent of Hell on earth for over six thousand years, and in all of them he had never met a being as lovely and magnetic as this lost angel. He felt a calling in Aziraphale, a pull that his own twisted soul begged to respond to. It was unclear if Aziraphale felt connection between them, and Crowley was definitely not going to mention it. 

The waiter returned, pushing a rolling cart made of bright silver metal with crisp white cloths. As the tiny sample plates were laid on the table before them, Crowley bit his tongue against the sweet gasp of excitement from the angel. Aziraphale brought his hands together eagerly, before gently unfolding his napkin and laying it delicately in his lap. 

Watching Aziraphale eat was… a religious experience. 

He couldn’t be so oblivious to the way he sounded. No one was that innocent, were they? Crowley could barely stand it. As discreetly as he could, he adjusted his posture, sliding one thigh over the other until his legs were crossed. 

“Crowley, you must try this! It’s delightful!”

“Sure, angel.” He found himself acquiescing, picking up one of the tiny forks and jabbing a bit of Beluga. He hummed appropriately, and silently vowed he would put _ anything _in his mouth if it would bring forth that pleased glint in Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Ohh, and oysters! Have you ever had one?” Aziraphale asked a few minutes later. Crowley felt a sharp pang just above his navel, the taste of lemon and salt coating his tongue. He swallowed. 

“Not that I can recall,” He answered, clearing his throat. 

“Oh my dear, you must! Here, sprinkle the lemon on it like this,” Aziraphale demonstrated with his own, squeezing the lemon over the open shell lightly. Lemon juice dripped down his fingers. “And tilt your head back, don’t chew. Just let it slide down, watch,” And the angel did. 

Crowley, surprisingly, was not much of a sexual creature. Temptation was his gig, yes, and he was _ damn _ good at it. He was also good at gently nudging that temptation in the direction of his choosing. He wasn’t one for touching, for casual sexual contact. He had done it, of course, he was a demon after all. But he did not experience random arousal, as a general rule. 

But when Aziraphale tilted his head back and stuck his tongue out so briefly, allowing the oyster to glide down his throat… the way his throat convulsed as he swallowed… well. Crowley had already become half erect, but after _ that _display. 

He couldn’t remember the last time his cock had been so _ painfully hard. _

“Go on,” Aziraphale offered, nudging the plate a bit closer. 

Two could play at that game. Crowley was not about to be outdone. Definitely not by an _ angel. _

He picked up the oyster slowly, cradling it in his long fingers before reaching over for a slice of lemon. He squeezed the juice over the shell, being a bit more messy than he needed to be. After dropping the lemon onto his plate, he brought his fingers to his lips, looking over the table to Aziraphale, who was watching rapturously. 

One by one, he licked the lemon juice from his fingertips. The juice had trailed all the way down his middle finger, so he sucked the finger all the way down to the knuckle, letting it slide back out from between his lips carefully, licking his teeth afterwards. Aziraphale flushed, his bright hazel eyes stuck on Crowley’s mouth. 

Carefully, he tilted his head back and let his serpentine tongue wrap around the shell, coaxing the oyster out so it would slide down his tongue and into his mouth. He breathed deeply, allowing the air to stutter through his lungs, before he swallowed greedily. Lemon and salt. 

Whatever doubts he may have had about having known Aziraphale and somehow forgotten him, were erased in the moment their eyes locked over that empty oyster shell. 

Aziraphale was staring at him greedily, with a glint in his eyes darker than any angel should be capable of. 

“How was it?” The angel asked, his voice deeper, rougher. He swallowed visibly. 

“Delicious. Familiar. Maybe I’ve had them before after all.” He added, watching Aziraphales face carefully. 

“Yes… I think you’re right.” He cleared his throat, and the waiter appeared with another bottle of wine. The dark stirring in Aziraphale eyes cleared suddenly, storm clouds scattering, the moment broken. 

Crowley tried not to hiss at the waiter. 

The rest of their dinner passed mildly, Aziraphale asked about Crowley’s favorite places in London, and he answered easily. They spoke of art museums, the best views of the Thames, five star restaurants and little hole-in-the-wall cafes. By the time Aziraphale had finished his dinner and ordered a nice little lemon cake for dessert, Crowley had requested a bottle of Port for himself and was swirling the wine around his glass as the angel let his fork down gently on his empty plate. 

“This has been lovely.” He smiled, patting his stomach. 

It was much passed closing time for the Secret Garden Bar, but Crowley might have done a small demonic miracle to keep them comfortable for a while. They were alone in the Garden, the twinkling lights shining in Aziraphale’s Heavenly eyes. Crowley could smell apples again. 

“Can I give you a ride home?” Crowley asked, unable to take his eyes from him. 

“Oh, I’d best not. I’m sorry dear but your driving… I’ve just eaten quite a bit.” He smiled apologetically. 

“A walk around Berkeley, then,” Crowley offered. 

“That sounds nice, yes.” 

Crowley raised his hand, holding out his credit card. Hell paid him handsomely, but his club paid him even better. Their waiter arrived and took his card, returning with it only moments later. Crowley signed the receipt and stood, waiting patiently as Aziraphale did the same. 

Berkeley Square was nearly empty, with a few late night stragglers occupying its darkened spaces. Mostly couples, twisted together in the shadows, radiating lust and sometimes something brighter, something that felt like Aziraphale. 

They strode through the Square in companionable silence, enjoying the chilly night air. It felt so easy, like his body had walked alongside Aziraphales for centuries, like they gravitated around each other, circling around like the earth and the moon. It made Crowley ache in ways he was quite sure he wasn’t supposed to ache. 

“Do you believe in Her inefable plan, Crowley? Do you believe She has plans for all of us, even if it’s something that may be… something we wouldn’t expect?” Aziraphale eventually asked, softly. 

“It’s not my place to speculate, angel, not anymore.” Crowley answered.

“Yes, but… Say She gives something and then She takes it away…” 

Crowley faltered, then focused on putting one foot in front of the other, chewing over the words. 

“Did she take something from you, angel?” Crowley eventually asked, softly. Too softly. 

“I think she did, yes.” Aziraphale whispered, glancing over at him. Crowley couldn’t breathe. Aziraphale slowed to a stop, and Crowley turned to look back at him. “Crowley… I enjoyed myself this evening. Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me, angel.” Crowley exhaled, suddenly intensely uncomfortable in his skin. Aziraphale just smiled at him. 

“May I try something?” He asked gently, holding out his hand. “I won’t hurt you,” He breathed, a promise. 

Crowley, unable to form words in his mouth, merely blinked dumbly and slowly extended his hand. Aziraphale took it gently, his skin dry and warm, and Crowley felt nothing, _ nothing _\- not the damp night air or the brush of clothes against his skin- nothing but the contact of their fingers. 

Aziraphale, keeping his eyes on Cowley’s stunned face, brought their hands up and leaned over to kiss his boney knuckles, with the barest of pressure. Crowley inhaled sharply, air whistling passed his teeth in a sharp hiss. 

“Goodnight, my dear.” Aziraphale breathed, still hovering over their joined fingers. 

Then, with a rustling of silent feathers, he was gone.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I've got a few quick things to get out here, bear with me. Firstly, I meant to post this yesterday but I've had to completely write out a new chapter and stick it here, moving the others back. This one gets a bit... angsty and theological? Very sorry. This was a bit more plot that I had originally intended, but I think the story will be better for it. Also a disclaimer; I am not a religious person and I've never read a bible, I know nothing. Any information on angels and all that noise, I got from google and my own overactive imagination. 
> 
> (I respect religion and other's beliefs 100%, I just don't practice them personally.)
> 
> Also, since I'm doing songs with this pic I've made a few changes;
> 
> Song lyrics will be in bold and Italics.  
Memories and thoughts and words with emotional emphasis will be in normal Italics.  
Text messages are in bold. 
> 
> That way it's a little less confusing. I've changed the song lyrics in last chapter to bold italics, but that is the only change I made. 
> 
> There are three songs in this chapter, here they are in order of appearance;
> 
> Hurts Like Hell by Fleurie  
First Person on Earth by Robert DeLong  
When You're Evil by Voltaire
> 
> I think that's about it. I'm still a few chapters ahead, so I should post the next one by Thursday night at the latest. I hope you enjoy this one, and try not to judge me too harshly.

_ “Do you believe in Her inefable plan, Crowley? Do you believe She has plans for all of us, even if it’s something that may be… something we wouldn’t expect?” _

It had begun to rain on the drive back to Crowley’s flat. Not soft little drops, but great fat splashes across his windshield, the dull roar louder than the Bentley’s engine. He had gotten soaked running from the car to the alley entrance to his building. His jacket and mesh shirt stuck to him, his hair laid flat against his skull, the ends of his curls dripping water down onto the floor. 

He didn’t bother turning on the lights in the flat. Even through the rain blurring the glass wall, the London nightlife was bright enough to give the flat a dull glow. He stood at the window, gazing at his own wet reflection, swirling wine gently around his glass. The distant whir of his stereo coming to life without his consent didn’t manage to puncture his swelling thoughts. 

** _How can I say this without breaking?_ **

** _How can I say this without taking over?_ **

** _How can I put it down into words_ **

** _When it's almost too much for my soul alone?_ **

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _And it hurts like hell_ **

** _Yeah it hurts like hell. _ **

Of course She has a plan. It’s  _ the _ plan, the Great Plan. She has always had it, since the beginning. She must have. The alternative was too painful to consider. She has Her reasons, Her reasons for creation, for the war, for casting Her children from Heaven. Her reason for casting him aside. 

  
  


_ “It's not my place to speculate, angel, not anymore.”  _

_ “Yes, but… Say She gives something and then She takes it away…”  _

  
  
  


** _I don’t want them to know the secrets_ **

** _I don’t want them to know the way I loved you_ **

** _I don’t think they’d understand it, no_ **

** _I don’t think they would accept me, no. _ **

He was crying somehow. The ache in his chest was growing and consuming, burning from his sternum up into his breast. He was shaking, his skin cold against his wet clothes, but somehow he was scorching. Burning like the light that came off of Aziraphale. Burning from the inside out, and it was getting hotter. His hand spasmed around the wine glass and it shattered. Even his vision was blinded, everything going bright like his very body was aflame. Panting, crying out incoherently, he shut his eyes and fell to his knees. His glasses slipped from his nose, clattering on the hardwood somewhere nearby. His hand thrust out to press against the floor and glass splintered under his palm. 

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _And it hurts like hell_ **

** _Yeah, it hurts like hell. _ **

  
  


_ In the beginning, everything was different. The earth was still barren, still untouched by Her love. Only he and his brothers and sisters felt Her Grace. They were seven in number, and they were Her everything. Together, they Created. Together, they were whole.  _

_ All, but one.  _

_ He, and even in that moment his name was still lost, looked upon his siblings, so pure and perfect, all made to complement each other. And he felt within himself, a flaw.  _

_ Blasphemous; the notion that he was not perfect just as She had made him. That he dare to question Her design. But he did, and his struggling faith was shared by another. Lucifer, who looked upon his angelic form, who recognized the sadness within his light. Lucifer, who had loved Micheal so dearly, but questioned his lack of desire for more.  _

_ And then, Humanity. Slow, small, stupid creatures. But She loved them so, and he could only follow Her. Even while struggling, even while feeling the flaw within himself, even while feeling the lack of more.  _

_ He sat upon the edge of Heaven, looking down upon the Garden, and felt his angelic body bursting. The great loneliness within himself. Why had She done it? She had made the first two, the second two, the third two. And then… him.  _

_ Even when she created Humanity, there were two.  _

_ But he was alone. He sat upon the edge of Heaven, bursting. And inside his body of light, a fissure began. Slowly spreading along his soul, splitting down the middle of his very being. Until, finally, he was no longer one, but two.  _

_ The light of the Other, the warmth, the love. And they gazed upon each other, and they felt whole. He had created this other self, this other half of his own soul.  _

_ But he had done it without Her. And the others were so angry. All but Lucifer, who could only look upon them with fierce admiration. Lucifer, who saw in this rebellious creation; an opportunity.  _

  
  


** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _I loved and I loved and I lost you_ **

** _And it hurts like hell_ **

** _Yeah, it hurts like hell._ **

Crowley was gasping, there was no air in his lungs, there was only fire. There was only agony. Slowly, it began to fade. He remained pressed against the floor of his flat, violently shaking, gagging and spitting liquid fire up from his throat. The tears falling down his face burned like they were tainted with holy water. He felt the presence recede from him, taking with it the heat and pain, but leaving the knowledge behind. 

He cried as it faded, aching for it to return, aching for Her, but She left him so slowly and carefully and he strived desperately not to fall apart in Her absence. 

Crowley couldn’t have said how long he laid on the floor, his mind being slowly pulled apart as the knowledge and memories were given back to him. He could only endure, Her love wrecking his demonic soul in ways that he could not comprehend. When She finally pulled the last of Her grace from him, a final parting laced with such compassion and forgiveness, he sobbed brokenly. 

_ Aziraphale, it’s you. It’s always been you. I’ve loved you since the beginning. I loved you, and I Fell. And I lost you.  _

  
  
  
  


Aziraphale waited until the rain stopped, sometime late morning, to carry the bag of rubbish to the bins on the curb. As he dropped the white plastic sack inside and moved to replace the lid, he glanced up to gaze across the street. 

Crowley was there, also carrying out rubbish along with something silver under his arm trailing black cords, and he glanced up at the same moment that Aziraphale did, their gaze catching at the same moment. 

Everything around Aziraphale went a bit quiet, muted. He stared at Crowley, and to look at him was to adore him. They watched each other as the world continued on around them. Crowley’s long hair was split, the top strands twisted and pulled back into a knot at the back of his head, the rest of his hair falling freely around his shoulders. He had changed from the night before, the slender lines of his legs leading up to a black button up, top two buttons undone. Even with his glasses, Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s gaze. The noise of the traffic meant nothing, the city-goers walked around them without paying them any mind. 

It seemed they came to a decision at the same time, for just as Aziraphale meant to step into the street Crowley did the same. WIthout taking his gaze from Aziraphale, he strolled carelessly into traffic, cars honking and drivers yelling, but Crowley ignored it all. Before Aziraphale could figure out what to say to him, to decide how he should act after their dinner the previous night, Crowley was standing in front of him on the sidewalk. 

“Good morning, angel,” He offered softly, at odds with the tense lines of his face. 

“Good morning my dear,” Aziraphale offered in return, determined to act as though everything was fine. “What is that you have there?” 

“Oh, this. It’s my stereo. And some garbage.” Crowley answered, frowning as he jostled the stereo under his arm, the unmistakable sound of broken glass clinking around in the white bag. Aziraphale ignored the bag, looking at the stereo curiously. 

“Why are you carrying it around?”

“I was binning it,” Crowley confessed, shrugging. 

“Is it broken?” 

“No, it’s just.I just need to get rid of it.” Crowley answered, fidgeting a bit, switching his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Would you mind terribly if I took it?” Aziraphale asked carefully, feeling as though Crowley was spooked and on the verge of running. He was awfully shifty. 

“You want-” Crowley began, incredulous, looking from Aziraphale to the stereo with some strange apprehension. 

“Of course! The shop could do with some music.” Aziraphale smiled. 

“Er, well yeah, If you want.” 

“Lovely! Would you mind terribly if I asked you to set it up for me? It’s just that I’m not quite sure how. Not really my area.” Aziraphale tried, hoping to tug Crowley out of his strange mood. 

Crowley, eyebrows raised, dropped the bag of broken glass into the bin. 

“Sure, angel. Lead the way.” 

Aziraphale cleared out a space in his shop for the stereo, not too far from the till. He watched with pleasure as Crowley bent down to slip his long arm behind the shelf to plug it into the wall, before straightening to tap the thing lightly. It came on immediately. 

“I feel like I should warn you,” Crowley began, in a way that Aziraphale would describe as  _ nervous _ , but the music began abruptly and cut him off. 

** _In the beginning_ **

** _There’s a heatwave_ **

** _It’s us from nothing_ **

“I feel like I should warn you, this damn thing is cursed.” Crowley groaned, grimacing at the stereo. 

“Cursed, you say?” Aziraphale frowned. 

** _Cause we got no secrets to tell_ **

** _You know me like I know myself_ **

“Yes, cursed.” Crowley affirmed, glowering. 

** _If you were the first person on earth_ **

** _We would be together when it ends_ **

** _Started when we had no names or words_ **

** _Finishing each other's sentences_ **

** _Nobody understands me_ **

** _Nobody like you do_ **

** _So if I'm the last one standing_ **

** _I would wanna watch it burn with you_ **

Flushing, Aziraphale glanced to Crowley, who was glaring at the stereo. 

“Can I show you something?” Crowley asked suddenly. “It’s a bit of a drive. Got anything else to do today?” 

“Nothing important.” Aziraphale smiled up at him.  _ Nothing more important than you.  _

“Great. I’m going to go grab the car, I’ll drive around to the door in ten minutes.” Crowley stated, and left quickly, his slender form slipping through the front door before Aziraphale could question him further. He was acting rather oddly. Aziraphale bit his lip, thinking of his daring approach the night before, and hoped he hadn’t messed things up. He had spent most of the morning fretting about it, but he kept coming to the same conclusion. 

Nothing had happened. He had not been stricken down, he had not been suddenly assaulted by the Heavenly Host, he had not gotten any obvious threats, he had not Fallen.  _ Nothing had happened.  _

Even until that point, when he allowed his lips to press gently against Crowley’s skin, he had doubted. He had been unsure. Was this really the right thing to do? Had he misinterpreted Her will? Was he wrong? 

But Crowley had given his hand, and Aziraphale had given in to that distinctly un-angelic urge. And nothing had happened. He could still feel his own Grace, thrumming within his corporeal form just as strongly as it ever had. 

He could also still feel something else, something that blazed its strongest in Crowley’s presence, flickering softer, but steadily, even away from him. Aziraphale loved all of Creation. He had been created from Her Love, he was saturated in it. Love was a part of him. 

But this… the strength of this defied everything, even his faith in Her. Because unless he loved Crowley with the whole of his being, he would never have deemed it worth the risk to press his lips against Crowley’s trembling fingers. 

Aziraphale knew then, without a doubt.  _ He loved Crowley _ . He loved him with all of himself, he had loved him for a long time. Upon this realization, Aziraphale had felt such soothing warmth, and a revelation came to him. 

_ He stood at the Eastern gate, wringing his hands fretfully, watching the two shrinking figures in the distance. A bright spot of fire dimming along with them.  _

_ “Well that went down like a lead balloon.” _

_ The serpent, Crawly. His long body twisting along the wall, his yellow eyes following Aziraphale’s own into the distance.  _

_ “I think it was a bit of an overreaction, to be honest,” He continued, “I mean, first offence and everything. I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway.” _

_ “It must be bad,” Aziraphale had reasoned, “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been involved.”  _

_ Even then, he had felt the pull. The familiarity, as though he had known Crawly. Before he had Fallen.  _

Aziraphale had loved him since the beginning. 

  
  
  
  


Crowley was quiet as he drove. Aziraphale couldn’t help but glance over at him, The sharp lines of his profile, his long angular nose and thin lips. The wild curls of his hair, the soft flesh of his neck. The delicate tendons in his hands, clenched around the steering wheel. There wasn’t a part of him that Aziraphale found anything less than perfect. 

But he couldn't speak of it. Crowley hadn’t mentioned the night before, and Aziraphale didn’t want to push him. He was patient, they had time. 

He was surprised when they pulled up outside a devastatingly beautiful Cathedral. It’s towering architecture, the spires reaching towards the Heavens, it was frightfully beautiful. Aziraphale moved slowly from the car, allowing himself to take it in. 

“It’s St Peter’s Cathedral Basilica.” Crowley murmured from beside him, Aziraphale had been so lost in awe that he hadn’t heard him walk around the car. 

“It’s beautiful,” Aziraphale breathed, enamoured. He did so love beautiful things. “Can we go in?”

“You can. I can’t, I’m afraid.” Crowley said, shrugging, appearing indifferent. He didn’t  _ feel _ indifferent. 

“My dear, why did we come here?” Aziraphale asked, confused. Crowley seemed to teeter on the edge of something, but he wouldn’t turn to look at Aziraphale. Finally, he spoke. 

“Last night… I don’t want you to question, angel. Go in, reassure yourself. I’ll wait for you here.” Crowley murmured, refusing to look at him, crossing his arms and leaning back against the Bentley, and for all appearances settling in to wait. 

Awed and enraptured, Aziraphale nodded carefully, letting his gaze linger over his demon for a moment more, before turning to the Church. 

Inside was so silent, his soft steps echoed along the walls. Soft light filtered in from the stained windows, and he could see dust motes lingering in the light. The pillars along the edge of the empty pews rose up into lovely white arches, and he was mesmerized. The air smelled of incense and sage. Aziraphale closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

He strode halfway along the great room, settling in an empty pew, and arranged his coat meticulously. 

“Hello, it’s me, Principality Aziraphale.” He began softly. “It’s amazing, the things humanity creates for You. Just look at this place,” He breathed. 

“Crowley brought me here. Can you believe that? A demon, dropping an angel off at a church to pray. He’s an odd one, for a demon. Though, I supposed he’d have to be, for me to love him so much…” 

He paused, waiting, unsure of what he was expecting. Nothing happened, so he continued. 

“I know You have a plan, and Your plan is inefable. It is not for me to question it. I’m just a Principality,” He chuckled nervously, “And I feel like I should apologize for my brief… mishap.” He swallowed, thinking of the night before. 

_ “Do you believe in Her inefable plan, Crowley?” _

“It’s not that I doubt You, I would  _ never. _ ” He assured Her, “It’s just that I… I’m finding it difficult to understand why You would take him away from me.” Aziraphale whispered, closing his eyes as he raised his face towards the ceiling. “I don’t know who he was before he Fell, but I do know that you let me come to know him after his Fall. You let me come to love him. Why would you take that away, just to give it back to me? I don’t understand… Are you going to take him from me again? Please don’t take him from me again,” He pleaded, so softly. 

Still, there was no answer from above. But Aziraphale felt it, Her warmth. With a loving sigh, he embraced it eagerly. 

  
  
  


_ The pub was cramped, the heat from many bodies gave the air a stifling feeling, but Aziraphale didn’t mind. He came for the food, which was rather good. The kitchen woman had started this thing where she cooked a lovely lamb roast then hollowed out a large bread bun, placing the tender meat and gravy inside. It was one of his new favorite things. The draft wasn’t bad either.  _

_ He wanted to bring Crowley here.  _

_ It had only been thirty-two years since they last saw each other, and it was much too soon to seek him out. But perhaps in a few more years. He could certainly spare a small miracle or two to keep the place running until then.  _

_ He had just gotten his food, smiled and thanked the lovely woman, and began to tuck in when there was the unmistakable sound of feathers rustling across the table. Aziraphale paused, his body tensing.  _

_ “Hello Aziraphale,” Gabriel offered cordially, his gaze flicking briefly to the hot meal with a look of ill disguised disgust before smiling back up at him again. Sighing, Aziraphale put down his spoon.  _

_ “Gabriel, how may I help you?” He offered, respectfully. Better to play nice, he had already learned that lesson.  _

_ “That remains to be seen,” Gabriel said brightly, “We’ve got some new word on your black feathered friend.”  _

_ “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”  _

_ “He’s been wreaking more havoc than usual. Started a plague in Africa and it’s spread to Europe. It’s getting out of hand.”  _

_ He would never, that isn’t his style, Aziraphale thought privately. Crowley may be a demon, but he was surprisingly harmless. In the five-hundred odd years since the death of Christ, he had come to know Crowley a little better. He was more fond of causing deliberate inconvenience than full out chaos. He’d rather tempt a boy to set loose someone else's horses, or give travelers the wrong directions, or even on one memorable occasion, casually invite Aziraphale to dinner at a well known brothel.  _

_ Well known to everyone except Aziraphale, that was. That had been… enlightening, to say the least.  _

_ Aziraphale, pursing his lips against the fondness of the memory, nodded solemnly. Gabriel was glancing around the pub, leaning away as a less fortunate soul shuffled by, her aura dark with pain.  _

_ “Anyway, you’re slacking. Hell is currently winning. We put you on earth with a job to do, Principality. Go do it.” Grabriel ordered, his smile rather fierce and brittle.  _

_ It wasn’t exactly that Aziraphale was afraid of Gabriel. He wasn’t, not really. Not in the way Gabriel would have expected. Aziraphale may have gone a bit soft around the middle, but he wasn’t weak. He had been a soldier, after all, one of Heaven’s finest.  _

_ It was just that Aziraphale enjoyed his job and he’d rather like to keep it.  _

_ “Of course, I’ll get right on it. We can’t have those demons beating us,” He smiled, even managed to chuckle a bit.  _

_ “Good, glad we had this chat. Too bad that Crawly is immune to the sickness. Be awfully convenient if he were to, you know. Just die.” Gabriel shrugged, his violet eyes wide in a slightly manic way.  _

_ “Yes, that’s too bad.” Aziraphale agreed carefully.  _

  
  
  


“You’re late, Principality.” 

Aziraphale jolted, yanking himself from the memory with a force that left him heaving. He placed a hand to his chest to steady himself and looked over to see Gabriel sitting next to him on the pew, squinting up at the altar. 

“Do humans really come to these things to pray? She isn’t even here.” He said, still gazing at the altar with apparent confusion. 

“She is for them.” Aziraphale countered, clearing his throat and resisting the urge to glance behind them at the entrance, where Crowley’s car could be seen on the street. Gabriel shrugged next to him. 

“No matter. Your report.” He stated, looking to Aziraphale. 

“Ah, yes. My report. Well, I’ve made contact with the demon Crowley,” He admitted, staring ahead. 

“And?” 

“He’s pretty well defended, it seems.” Aziraphale offered weakly. 

“Can you get the job done? Or do we need to send someone else?” 

“Oh, no that won’t be necessary. I’m quite capable.” He insisted, hopefully not too transparent. 

“Then get it done. Michael and I are waiting for results. Next time, don’t forget to come in to Head Office and make your report, I don’t like to have to come looking for you. I have other things I need to be doing.” Gabriel informed him, standing. 

“Of course, very sorry. I’ll mark it on my calendar.” 

“What is a calendar?” Gabriel frowned. Then; “Oh, wait. I don’t care.” 

And he was gone. Aziraphale let out a long breath, letting his head fall back. 

_ “Thank you, _ ” He told Her. 

  
  
  
  


Crowley had dropped Aziraphale, who had been curiously silent after stepping out of the Cathedral, back at his dusty little shop. He felt his soft gaze burning into his skin the entire drive, making him want to slither around on the leather seats to wipe the sting away. 

Seeing him after the night before had been… difficult. For many reasons. 

The memories She had given him had answered so many of his questions, but also left him gaping and hungry to know more. Who was he? Who were  _ they?  _ Was that why he Fell, because of Aziraphale? Or was it because of something he had done after? He needed to know. He wasn’t sure how to look at the angel, now knowing what he knew. Not when Aziraphale himself was oblivious. 

He obviously couldn’t tell him. Even if he could figure out how, who says his angel would believe him?

_ His angel.  _

Because he was. He absolutely was. Aziraphale belonged to Crowley, he was a part of him. No two beings could have fit more perfectly together, not even the other archangels. They were made for each other, and not by Her, but by themselves. 

...but Crowley wasn’t an angel anymore. He had Fallen, and nothing could have brought him farther from Aziraphale. Nothing could have damaged them more, nothing could have made him more unworthy of his angels love. He was dirty, tainted. How could he dare to touch him now?

What if Aziraphale Fell?

No, inconceivable. Crowley couldn’t. He remembered the pain of it. Sauntering vaguely downwards indeed, leading up to it. But when it had actually happened… it wasn’t a slow thing. It was sharp, it was agonizing. His first intensely vibrant memory was being gripped by his very soul and crashing violently through the floors of Heaven, falling down through the atmosphere while he  _ burned. _

The years of the sulfur pits, as time passed in a way he couldn’t understand. The feel of his soul shattering over and over, only to be put back together, each time a little differently than before. Then later, as his body began to form once again, the smell of flesh cooking as fast as it could knit itself together. It had taken him ages to crawl out of the pits. 

Then, upon his emergence as a new creature, Lucifer standing before him. Having had so much time to conquer their new realm while Crowley suffered in the pits. He stood before Crowley, also changed, his voice painful to hear. 

_ Go up there and make some trouble _ , he had said. And Crowley could only obey. 

His existence had been a struggle since. The beginning was difficult, as Crowley learned who he was. But after a while, he had come to enjoy earth and its creatures. Humans grew to be such clever things, and he really hadn’t even had to work too hard. They bollocksed most things up just fine on their own. But his six thousand years still felt… empty. 

Because a part of him was gone. 

And now suddenly that part was living across the street from him, smiling at him with eyes full of Heaven’s light, making his soul burn in a way that was both agonizing and addicting. And oh, how Crowley wanted him. His knuckles, touched by those soft lips just the night before, burned and he resisted the urge to rub them along his coat. 

Aziraphale was so pure and bright. How could Crowley even  _ think _ of it? He couldn’t stain him with Hell’s black sins. He would never forgive himself. 

But… why else would She give him these memories? Why would She tell him? Surely not just to make him suffer, their Mother wasn’t cruel. She must have a reason. 

Crowley walked into his quiet flat, still quite distracted, and looked around at his plants. They began to tremor slightly. 

“Honey, I’m home…” He called out, his voice laced with disdain as he glared around at them. The tremors increased. 

Satisfied, he strode through the main room and towards his bedroom, removing his coat as he went. He needed something to do, something to occupy his mind and rid himself of these thoughts. 

Tonight, he would go to work. 

  
  
  
  


It was Karaoke night at the Second Circle. When Anathema had first recommended it about a year ago, Crowley had laughed at her. Six months later when it had become their most popular weekly event, he was no longer laughing. 

It was still early evening, but the floor was already crowded, excitement and expectation coiling through the air like smoke. She left the other bartenders behind the counter with  _ a look _ and strode around the edge of the dance floor, her long skirt flowing around her legs. Like Crowley, she was recognized by many of their patrons. Crowley owned the place, and he liked to say he ran it, but the real work was done by Anathema. 

It was easy to slither around, smiling at people, performing some widespread mood manipulations occasionally, and look important. It was another thing entirely to speak to the vendors, make sure the bar was stocked, ensure maintenance was done, pay the daily cleaners, check the state of the restrooms, manage security personnel, and run the books. A normal woman couldn’t have done it, not on her own. What a happy coincidence that Anathema wasn’t a normal woman. 

“All set?” She asked, after arriving in the gated box above the dance floor where the dj equipment resided. 

“I think so. I’m still not sure about this, Anathema. Managing a premade list is one thing, but Karaoke night?” Newt fretted, pushing his too large glasses up his nose. 

“You’ll do fine, love.” She soothed. “The only thing you need to remember is to remove the violin scores for anything that Crowley picks, if he picks anything at all. When he gets here I’ll send you a text.” 

Newt nodded, swallowing, looking down at the equipment. Sighing fondly, she leaned up onto her toes to kiss his rough cheek. 

“I still think your other guy should be here.” He muttered. 

“He’s sick, and I don’t want him in here wheezing all over the equipment. It’s expensive, you know.” 

“I do know,” He sighed. 

“You’ve got this. You’ll do great.” She assured him once more, before leaving him in the box. 

The night went off without any problems, and she blessed her own foresight of having an extra behind the bar so she could spend more time supervising. Newt was doing quite well, compared to how he was when they first met. That silly curse he had been under had been pretty troublesome. Easy enough to remove, though. 

By the time Crowley sauntered down the stairs, drawing every eye in the room, the floor was at capacity and there was still a rather long line outside the door, wrapping around to the alley. 

He was in heels, the slender muscles of his long legs flexing under his thigh high stockings, leading up to an indecently short and tight fitted wine red dress patterned with black velvet roses. The neckline wasn’t low, but it was wide, leaving his boney shoulders bare. Anathema pulled out her mobile. 

**He’ll be singing tonight -sent**

**Okay -Silly Lover**

Crowley came to lean against the bar next to her, looking out at the crowd with a smirk. Discreetly, she took a quick picture of him to file away for later use. 

“Wine or Liquor?” She asked, slipping her phone back into her pocket. He grinned at her. 

  
  


It was over an hour later when Crowley sat his third empty glass on the counter, rolling his head around to stretch his long neck. 

“Go get ‘em,” She laughed, as he snaked his way through the crowd, thriving on the lustful eyes that followed. He stepped into the gated dj box and even from her place at the bar she could see the fear in Newt’s eyes. In heels Crowley was taller, and Newt gazed up at him, wide eyed and nodding as Crowley spoke. 

When he made his way onto the stage carrying a small case, the screaming started. When he opened the case and pulled out his religiously well kept Stradivarius, the noise was deafening. Anathema grimaced, resisting the urge to put her fingers in her ears. 

“Now that’s quite enough of that.” Crowley said sternly into the mic, rolling his eyes as they only got _ louder.  _ Even from across the room, his pleasure at his own notoriety was visible, scowl or not. 

He ran the bow over the strings experimentally, pursing his lips and adjusting the pegs and trying again, ignoring the chanting in the crowd. His hair was falling over one shoulder and he tossed it carelessly back, only for it to fall forward again. When apparently ready, he tapped the bow across the mic, glaring over at Newt in the box. 

Anathema hopped up to sit on the bar, gaining her a better view over the crowd, and pulled out her mobile. 

The sound of his violin began before the music did, high and smooth, and he leaned into the mic just as the strum of the guitar sounded through the speakers. 

** _When the Devil is too busy_ **

** _And deaths a bit too much_ **

** _They call on me, by name you see_ **

** _For my special touch_ **

** _To the gentlemen I’m Miss Fortune_ **

** _To the ladies I’m Sir Prize_ **

** _But call me by any name_ **

** _Any way it’s all the same_ **

All the while as he sang, he ran the bow expertly over the strings of his violin, sharp teeth flashing as he grinned. The dance floor went wild, the song was a familiar one, and the lyrics rang out among them. It was mischievous and upbeat, sending sparks of naughtiness through their bodies. Even Anathema wasn’t immune. 

** _I pledge my allegiance _ **

** _To all things dark and I _ **

** _Promis on my damned soul_ **

** _To do as I am told_ **

** _Lord Beelzebub has never seen_ **

** _A soldier quite like me_ **

** _Not only does his job but does it happily_ **

His hair fell over his shoulder again as he leaned over to sing into the mic, tilting his body to the side so he could assault the strings with his bow, and she was sure that a minor demonic miracle was involved in keeping his hair from tangling with the rapid movement of his fingers. Anathema took another picture. 

** _And it's so easy when you’re evil_ **

** _This is the life you see, the devil tips his hat to me_ **

** _I do it all because I’m evil_ **

** _And I do it all for free_ **

** _Your tears are all the pay I’ll ever need _ **

** _And I do it all for free_ **

** _Your tears are all the pay I’ll ever need_ **

** _And I do it all for free_ **

** _Your tears are all the pay I’ll ever need_ **

The music began to wind down, and his quick movements began to slow, wringing a more mournful tune. Anathem could see his face changing, eyes going sorrowful as gazed out aimlessly. 

** _It gets so lonely being evil_ **

** _What I’d do to see a smile_ **

** _Even for a little while_ **

** _And no one loves you when you’re evil…_ **

And then his misery was gone as quickly as it had come, for he scraped the bow over the strings with abandon for the last few seconds, smiling viciously. 

** _I’m lying through my teeth_ **

** _Your tears are all the company I need. _ **

He tossed his hair back as he lowered his bow and violin, bowing ridiculously low as he spread his arms in supplication to the screaming of his audience. Just as always, the screams of  _ encore _ rang out desperately, but Crowley ignored them, swinging his slender hips as he strode from the stage and back up to the dj box to replace his instrument. 

“That was something,” Anathem offered as he joined her once again at the bar. The next performance was starting, and their hands were shaking on the mic. No one liked to sing right after Crowley. 

Crowley shrugged, taking his fresh glass from one of the bartenders. 

“Half expected your little boy toy to screw it up part way through.” 

“You should give him a bit more credit. He’s gotten a lot better.”

“Still don’t know what you see in him.” Crowley said, sipping his liquor as he glanced in the direction of the box. 

“He’s cute.” She said, shrugging. “And he’s mine. When you know, you know.” She offered coyly, watching him from the corner of her eye. 

“Nnng.” He replied, as articulate as ever, red creeping up his neck. Anathema smiled behind her glass, but let it go. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here is an update, as promised. I didn't realize until just now when posting that there is no song in this chapter. Damn. But a quick reminder;
> 
> memories, thoughts, and words with emphasis are in italics.  
text messages are in bold.  
song lyrics will be in bold and italics (but there aren't any in this chapter, so)
> 
> I want to thank you all so, so much for your comments and kudos. They mean the world to me. Every time I see a new one I get so stupidly excited. 
> 
> One more thing; if anyone has an IG and would like to add me, my handle is thetide08. I don't post any fun Good Omens things, but I do post a lot of plants, animals, books, coffee, tea, and things like that. I'm a plant person. I grow a lot of things. I am also a book person. I read a lot of things. So if anyone just wants to make a new IG friend, I will happily follow you back. Especially if you post Good Omens content! :D

_ “Did you know him?”  _

_ “I knew his mother.” _

_ “I’m so sorry,”  _

_ “Your sympathies do nothing, Aziraphale! You’re supposed to fix these things! You’re supposed to be one of the good guys! You could have helped him, you could have helped them! What good are you, standing there doing nothing!” _

_ “Crowley…” _

_ “You’re useless! The lot of you! I’m glad I Fell! I’m glad I’m not part of you anymore, lest I be as awful as you!”  _

_ “You’re crying,”  _

_ “I am not! I am a demon! Demons don’t cry!” He sobbed, before falling to his bony knees on the dirt, the sound sharp. Crowley had staggered away from the funeral pyre before Azirapahle found him, drawn from halfway across the Earth by the sharp sting of his agony, but the sound of the mothers wailing could still be heard.  _

_ “I bought wine from her. Her best bottles. She said they were the best, because he picked the best grapes for her,” He whispered brokenly.  _

_ “We can’t save them all.” Aziraphale murmured, leaning down next to him. Crowley’s head was mostly hidden under the tattered woolen hood, and his wet eyes were clenched shut. _

_ “I can’t, but you could! Hell wouldn’t let me, I’m not allowed. But you are!”  _

_ “You know it doesn’t work that way.”  _

_ “Well it should! He was just a child, Aziraphale! He was just a boy, he-” Crowley choked. Aziraphale raised his hand, hesitating, before placing it gently on Crowley’s shoulder. He flinched hard, and Aziraphale could feel the bones of him. The angel had never deliberately touched him before, much less comforted him. He half expected to be struck by a Holy bolt.  _

_ “We are not death, nor are we life. It is not for us to choose. It is for us to keep the balance, to help them as best we can.” _

_ “You, not me. I can’t help them. I can only hurt them.” He cried softly, shaking his head.  _

_ “We keep the balance, and we help them as best we can.” Aziraphale repeated, squeezing Crowley’s shoulder gently. He waited until the sobbing stopped, keeping silent vigil over Crowley’s grief, until the demon gently shook Aziraphales hand off and walked away from him.  _

  
  


Aziraphale opened his eyes, pulling free from the trance, his tea gone cold in his lap hours before. He sat in his armchair in the back room of his shop, breathing heavily as he brought his shaking hand up to wipe the tears from his face. The memories were coming more easily, bits and pieces of their past stirring beneath the surface of his consciousness. 

Sometimes they came to him unbidden. Sometimes they seemed triggered by some small thing, such as this most recent one. Aziraphale glanced over at the book on his table, the desert on it’s cover was remarkably similar to the scene he had just witnessed. He could still smell the smoke from the funeral pyre. 

Eventually the sun rose, and Aziraphale put it aside to rise from his chair and prepare his shop for the day. 

  
  
  


He opened up his shop sometime late morning, then lingered behind the till, his eyes landing on  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter  _ where it was locked away in his glass case. 

He spent the next few hours carefully thumbing through its delicate pages, soaking up it’s knowledge with wonder. He was so caught up in its magic that he barely heard the twinkle of the bell over his door, and glanced up to find an elder gentlemen, well dressed, browsing his shelves. He had reading spectacles resting low on his nose, over a very bushy mustache. He had a leather book satchel hanging off of one shoulder. Aziraphale quickly closed the book, resting one hand over it protectively. 

He recognized the look of this one. A book dealer. One of his  _ least favorite _ types of human. Having them in his shop made him  _ extremely uncomfortable.  _

“Good afternoon, sir. I was just about to close up for an early dinner. Skipped lunch, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale offered jovially, to cover his discomfort. 

“Oh, I won't be but a moment.” The man replied, trailing off as his eyes wandered, not bothering to look at Aziraphale. He began to make his way over to the Prophecy section, to the books locked in the glass case. 

“Can I help you find what you’re looking for?” Aziraphale offered quickly, stepping from around the till to attempt to cut the man off. No such luck. The elder gentleman sidestepped him, his eyes caught. 

“Is that _ Mother Shipton _ ?” The man exclaimed, pointing one withered finger at the glass display. 

“Ah, yes, so sorry, it is most definitely not for sale.” Aziraphale said immediately, voice going rather high. 

It was at this point during the uncomfortable conversation that the bell over his shop jingled  _ again _ , and Aziraphale began to  _ panic.  _

“Well everything has its price, Mr. Fell. Honestly. Name it,” The aforementioned gentleman, now seeming more like some nasty villain in Aziraphales opinion, huffed. He began to reach for his wallet. 

“No sir, I am sorry, but none of these books are for sale. They are for display only,” Aziraphale insisted, gesturing to the sign above the case that said  _ just that.  _

“Mr Fell, I assure you, I have quite a good bit of money and I very much want  _ that book _ . Name your price, sir!” 

“I can not name my price, because it is priceless!” Aziraphale cried, somewhat agitated by this point. 

“Nonsense! I am quite- _ AAAHHHDEARLORD _ !” 

A very large black serpent had just dipped his head down directly into the Villains face from where it had slithered silently over the top of the case, it’s bulk squeezed up the opposite side. 

“What the bloody hell is that thing doing here!” The Villain screeched, backstepping and nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the creature. “What kind of shop are you running here! I shall have to report this!” The man shouted angrily, before nearly running to the door, shooting one incredulous look over his shoulder before he slammed the door behind him. 

The serpent slid his lengthy black tongue out of his mouth at the men's retreat. 

“Sssssssserves him right.” It spoke. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hummed, smiling up at him. “That was very kind of you, my dear.” 

“Ssssshut up, angel.” He hissed, before sliding his body off of the case and slowly reforming into his two legged self. “Well then, that was fun.” He said, grinning, still lisping a bit. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but take him in. He looked dashing, in shades of black, the neckline of his shirt indecently low. He had such a lovely form. He watched as Crowley tossed his deep red curls over his shoulder before looking over at him. He looked away quickly, red creeping up where his chest and collarbones were visible. 

“I knew you wouldn’t want to sell to that old bugger. Figured I’d just get rid of him.” He said, scrunching his face up as he looked passed Aziraphale. 

“How would you know that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, smiling. Oh, but he loved him terribly. 

Crowley paused, frowning. Reluctantly, Aziraphale changed the subject. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” 

“No,” Crowley answered, frown still lingering. “I just wanted to… stop by and let you know they’re sending me to Edinburg for a temptation. I’ll be gone for a couple of days.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, crestfallen. “Can’t someone else…? I mean, they’ll have someone stationed there, surely?” 

“Yeah, but he’s a bloody idiot and they want it done properly.” Crowley sneered, somewhat unhappily.

“I see.” Aziraphale sighed, twisting his hands together. They stood awkwardly for a moment and Aziraphale wanted so badly to reach out, but he didn’t dare. He had done so first, and he had told himself he would wait for Crowley to make the next move. He knew his own feelings… but Crowley’s were a mystery. 

“Yeah, so.” Crowley shrugged, sliding one hand into his pocket as the other tapped a stuttering rhythm against his thigh. 

“So… you’ll be back on Tuesday?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yeah, should be back by then. Wednesday at the latest.” Crowley affirmed, still tapping away. There was silence again. Aziraphale opened his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say, but Crowley spoke suddenly. 

“Angel listen, about the other night.” He bit out quickly, tongue on his teeth. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale breathed expectantly. 

“You… you meant that?” He asked, fidgeting rather strongly, switching his weight from one foot to another. “Because it’s just not done, you know? An angel and a demon. Our business Arrangement is one thing, but. We’re- and if it’s some ploy to gain my trust before you discorporate me or some other  _ Holy work _ ,” He sneered this bit, his voice going nasally, “then that’s pretty low. Even for me, it would be low. It’s pretty-” He was working himself up into a fit, Aziraphale could see. He hurried to cut him off. 

“Crowley, no. It wasn’t… I mean. I meant it.” He said honestly, cheeks warm. 

“Did you?” Crowley asked, voice clipped, his body taught as a bow string. 

“Yes.” Aziraphale answered, firmly. 

Crowley went silent, still twitching, fingers fiddling at his side as he looked out passed Aziraphales shoulder. 

“ _ Nnng, _ ” He bit out, tongue pressed to his teeth, before he reached out his fidgety fingers, pausing a foot away from Aziraphales face. “May I?” He asked, his jaw clenched. Rapt, Aziraphale nodded. He didn’t dare move. 

Crowley's fingers were still for a moment more, and Aziraphale just knew those eyes were searching his face for something, before he reached out the rest of the way and  _ oh so gently _ pressed his hand to Aziraphale’s cheek. 

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Crowley’s hand was cool on his heated face, fingers trembling as they traced his cheekbone, his thumb grazing over the edge of his mouth. Aziraphale could smell the cool skin at his wrist; salt, and earth, rain and something distinctly  _ Crowley.  _

“I’ll ssssee you later, angel.” He hissed, his voice shaky, before he dropped his hand and turned on his heel, fleeing the shop before Aziraphale could move to stop him. 

  
  
  


Crowley drove like mad to get out of London. Well, he always drove like mad. But he put a bit of extra effort into on that day, because he needed it. He needed the speed, the wind in his face, the time to think. 

He felt like he was playing with Holy fire. Dangerous, reckless, capable of ruining him completely. If Holy fire was also delicious, gorgeous, alluring, and pouring out of his own soul before wrapping around him in a loving embrace. 

Deep within the grips of worry and paranoia, Crowley couldn’t help but wonder; did Lord Beelzebub know? Is that why they tried to relocate Crowley to begin with, to keep him away from his angel? He could see no other reason. 

Unless there was more to it. Unless Lord Beelzebub had taken something else from him. Memories, bits and pieces of him, that were missing. Bits and pieces belonging to Aziraphale. There was no other way to explain their strange behavior that morning when he had gone into Hell for his weekly report. Their black eyes boring into him, unflinching and immune to the flies buzzing around their face. Asking question after question about the angel. 

Crowley had to put every ounce of demonic sass into his behavior to fool them, and even then he wasn’t sure it was enough. 

  
  


_ “Seem like you’re handling yourself well enough. Sadly, you’ll have to take a break from tormenting Heaven’s agent, because we need you in Edinburg tomorrow. There is a member of parliament who needs to be seduced by a certain someone in a certain place at a certain time.”  _

_ “What about Farragout? Isn’t he over in Edinburg?” Crowley asked, grimacing in exasperation that wasn’t entirely feigned.  _

_ “Farragout can’t be trusted with this one. It’s important. You will go. Here are the details of the assignment.” Lord Beelzebub had stated, handing over large envelope, eyes never leaving his face.  _

_ “Alright. I’ll just get things in order for my absence at my club. Can't have things going to shit while I’m gone.” Crowley drawled, glancing over the envelope.  _

_ “Just get it done. Dismissed.” Lord Beelzebub said loudly, watching him go with their beady little eyes.  _

_ Crowley gave a mock salute and sauntered away.  _

  
  


Crowley was worried they wanted him out of London for something specific. What if they were sending someone to hurt the angel? He couldn’t disobey… but he didn’t have to leave Aziraphale completely unprotected either. 

_ “So you think Hell is sending someone after him?” Anathema asked, as she sipped her tea. Crowley sat in her tidy living room, skin crawling with the gross and lingering amount of, ugh, love that saturated the flat.  _

_ “Yes. They never send me so far away. I’m good at what I do, but I’m not the only one. I think there is something more going on.” Crowley answered. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, trying to touch as little of the surfaces as he could. Hell forbid it cling to him.  _

_ “Well I can whip up something. You’ll just have to put it in his shop, somewhere close by him. It won’t work otherwise.” Anathema offered.  _

_ “I can do that.” Crowley assured her.  _

  
  


And he had, just a few hours later, slipped into the shop to find a sad little man arguing with Aziraphale about one of his precious books. Giving Crowley the perfect opportunity to stick the little leather bag full of witches spelled ingredients between two books on a cluttered shelf, before he slid into his serpent form to raise a little Hell. 

And then he had gone and done that  _ thing.  _

That thing that had left his hand itching and burning, even hours later as he drove into Edinburg. He would go in, do his job, then get the bloody fuck out and back to Soho. Anathema would keep and eye on the bookshop and update him if  _ anything _ happened. It would be  _ fine.  _

Maybe if he kept telling himself that, it would turn out to be true. But Crowley doubted it. 

  
  
  
  


“Anathema, where did you put my cup?” Newt called out from the kitchen. She hummed from the sofa, where she was flipping through a new magazine. There was an interesting advert for a plant expo in Nottingham. 

“Second shelf from the stove.” She called out, smiling as he heard the gentle clink of ceramic as he shuffled through the cabinet. Soon after, the sound of tea being poured. Anathema carefully ripped out the page with the advert and nabbed a pen off of the coffee table. She scribbled Crowley’s cell phone number along the bottom before folding it up and slipping it into her pocket. 

“Thank you, love,” She said sweetly, as he handed her her tea before he sat next to her. 

“What are you reading?” He asked, sipping his tea and nearly spilling it down his jumper when it scalded his lips. Silly man. 

“Hmm, strange weather patterns. What time do you have to be at work?” She asked, frowning as she sat he tea down on the coffee table to cool. 

“Oh, I’ve still got an hour.” He said, blowing cool air across his cup. 

“Dear, it’s nine thirty.”

“No it isn't. Is it? Oh, shite! I’ve got to go! I’ll see you later, yeah?” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before he rushed off of the couch, and his tea succeeded in spilling down his jumper. 

“Bloody christ, that’s hot!” He hissed as he half jogged back to the kitchen. 

She smiled after him dreamily, watching as he clambered around for his shoes and bag. His tie was still crooked when he fell out of the door. She was so terribly fond of him, the poor man. 

Warmth bloomed along her neck. 

Anathem glanced down, pulling at the string on her neck until the little leather bag fell out of her blouse. It was smoking a bit. She grinned. 

Letting her magazine fall to the coffee table, she picked up her tea instead, blowing on it as she strolled easily to the large sitting room window. She and Newt lived in the flat two floors below Crowley, so she had a perfect view of the lovely little bookshop below. She watched patiently. 

It was only a moment later when yellow haired young man, no, a demon in disguise, fled the shop. Even from ten floors up, Anathema could see the smoke coming from his hair. Smirking, she pulled out her mobile. 

**You were right. My charm just sent one packing. -sent**

**Is he alright? Can you see him? -BFF BITCH**

**I’m sure he’s fine. It worked. The demon is gone. -sent**

**How can you be sure? Go check on him! -BFF BITCH**

Anathem rolled her eyes. 

**Fine, I’ll go down and check on him. You’re such a worrier. It’s cute. -sent**

**Take it back. NOW. -BFF BITCH**

**Nope. Going to check on your boyfriend. I’ll update you in a little while. -sent**

**NINE CIRCLES OF HELL, ANATHEMA, NONE OF THEM PLEASANT -BFF BITCH**

  
  


Anathema laughed, and slipped her mobile back into her pocket. Fifteen minutes later she was walking calmly into Aziraphale’s shop. She detected the faint smell of burnt hair. 

“Oh, good afternoon dear,” Aziraphale greeted her from behind the counter. He was gently closing  _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. _

“Hello, I just wanted to pop in and see how you were getting along.” She offered, smiling at him as she folded her hands in front of her long skirt. 

“Quite well! I’ve almost finished with it. It is so thrilling, isn’t it!” He gushed, so happily. Anathema sighed fondly. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. What is that smell?” She asked innocently, glancing around. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” Aziraphale laughed. 

“Try me.” She offered, blinking at him, lips pressed together. 

“Well, a young man came in a little while ago, asking for romance novels. I have many, of course, but. Well, I don’t like to part with them. I tried to direct him to another shop, but instead he just walked right up to me, and, well. I think he tried to… flirt with me.” Aziraphale whispered the last, laughing nervously, wide eyed. 

“Can you blame him? You’re not unattractive, you know.” Anathema grinned at him. “I have it on good authority that you’re very pleasing to look at.” 

“Well that doesn't mean-” He paused, looked at her. “What do you mean? Who?” He asked quickly. 

Anathema just grinned at him, and shrugged. She found his resulting blush simply adorable. 

“I thought you might be interested in this.” She pulled the folded article from her pocket and slid it across the counter. 

“Oh this looks like such fun!” He exclaimed. “Shouldn’t you be showing this to Crowley? He would love to go.” 

“I’m sure he  _ would  _ love to go, yes.” Anathema agreed, staring at him, wide eyed. Poor idiot. 

“Ah,  _ oh _ ! Okay, yes, I see. Thank you, dear.” He smiled, looking quite pleased, and folded the advert back up before sliding it carefully into his pocket. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of adding his mobile number on the bottom.” She mentioned. 

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t have a mobile phone. I do have a landline, perhaps I could give him a ring later. Just to, you know. Check and make sure he’ll be back by wednesday.” 

“That’s terrible. They’re awfully useful. For example,” Anathema pulled out her own Mobile, unlocking the screen and selecting one of her own saved photos, of Crowley the night before. It was the one of him leaning against the bar, all sharp angles, in his red dress. She flipped the screen around and showed the photo to Aziraphale. 

Who promptly went  _ very _ red about the face. 

“Ah, that’s.” He began, voice gone a bit high. He paused. Swallowed. Held his hand out. “May I?” 

Anathema handed him the phone and he took it gingerly between his fingers, wide eyes on the screen. She gave him a moment, then reached over and swiped her finger across the screen once, so that the next photo was showing, of him on stage with the violin. 

“Oh, my dear Lord.” Aziraphale breathed, quite taken. “Are there more?” He whispered, eyes still glued to the screen as he brought his other hand up to pull at his bow tie. 

“Well,” She began, before slowly taking the phone from his fingers. He followed it with his gaze until the photo was no longer visible, before looking back to her like a drowning man. “I’ve known him for about twelve years. And I do take a lot of pictures.” 

“I see,” He stuttered, swallowing again. “And… you can send those in a, ah, text message? Is that right?”

“Yep.” She answered, emphasizing the ‘p’ so that it popped. 

“Right. Well then.” 

  
  


It was much later in the evening, after Aziraphale had closed up his shop and turned off the lights, that he found himself in his upstairs flat waiting for the kettle to boil as he carefully pulled the folded advert from his pocket. The expo was in Nottingham which, if he remembered correctly, was only a few hours drive from London. It was set for Wednesday, and Crowley  _ had _ said he should be back by then… 

He glanced across the room at his rotary phone. 

Moments later with his tea in hand, Aziraphale sat nervously in his armchair, his small table with the phone pulled up next to him. He sipped his tea and glanced down at the advert, then back over at the phone. Would Crowley want him to call? What if he didn’t answer? What if he was annoyed to hear from him? He had said he’d be back by Wednesday. There was no real reason that Aziraphale needed to call, he was perfectly capable of waiting. Crowley was probably busy working and didn’t have time to talk, surely. 

If that was the case he simply wouldn't answer. If he wasn’t busy, he would answer. Either way, calling was harmless. So Aziraphale would call. Yes. The logic of it seemed easy enough. 

Putting it into practice was somewhat different. 

Aziraphale glanced at the number, then at the phone again. He took another sip of his tea. 

_ Oh, to Hell with it!  _

He grabbed the phone and dialed. It rang once, twice. Then suddenly there was a click of the call being answered, and Aziraphale panicked. Before he could hang up, Crowley’s sultry voice slithered through the phone, into his ear, and directly down to his cock. 

_ “You’ve reached Anthony’s Sinful Service where the customer alwaysss comes first, how can I help you?”  _

“Cr-Crowley?” Aziraphale breathed, gripping his teacup tightly. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley demanded, his voice switching from seductive to startled within the space of a heartbeat. 

“Yyyes,” Aziraphale confirmed shakily. He sat his teacup down on the table and looked down to his groin, pressing the heel of his hand into his trousers, confounded.  _ That  _ hadn’t happened in _ quite a while.  _ “Do you always answer your phone that way?” He asked, hoping the strain wouldn’t transfer through the call. 

“Only when I’m bored,” Crowley admitted, and Aziraphale could hear his grin, bless him. “How did you get my number? I didn’t know you had a phone.” 

“Ah, well I have a landline. I don’t have a mobile.” 

“You should get one. Very useful, mobile phones.”

“I’ve been considering it.” Aziraphale admitted, biting his lower lip as he remember the photos. Crowley in a tight red dress, showing off every bony angle, shoulders bare, a sliver of his thighs visible just over the lacey hose. 

_ Playing a violin.  _

“Still there, angel?” 

“Yes, so sorry, I’m here,” Aziraphale hurried to answer, blinking away less than angelic thoughts. 

“So why did you call?” Crowley asked, his voice light and easy. Aziraphale smiled. 

“Just checking in, I suppose. I wanted to make sure your, ah, assignment had gone okay and that you’d be coming back to London on time.”

“Oh yeah, some lipstick and a corset and temptation accomplished.” He answered slyly. 

“You- You mean you-” There was that pesky erection again. 

“Of course. He never knew what hit him. So what about you, angel? Anything fun happen to you today?” Crowley asked, with a strange level of intensity. Aziraphale swallowed, trying to push the image of Crowley in a corset and lipstick out of his mind. And the dress. With the thigh highs. And heels. At least until later. 

“Ah, had a funny customer this morning but he didn’t stay long.” He offered, still somewhat distracted. 

“Funny how?” Crowley asked sharply, drawing Azirapahle’s attention. 

“Oh, I just mean he was acting strangely is all. Nothing to worry about.” 

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Crowly ordered. 

And, oh, that  _ tone.  _

“Well,” Aziraphale began, not even considering disobeying, “A young man came into the shop asking for some, ah, more illicit books. I tried to direct him to the shop next door, but he didn’t seem very interested. He just kept talking to me. He was. Well. He was rather suggestive, you might say.” 

_ “How.” _ A statement, not a question. 

“Well I believe he was trying to proposition me,” Aziraphale giggled nervously, tugging at his waistcoat out of habit. 

“Trying to… oh. _ Oh _ . That-those dirty-Oh I’m gonna-” Crowley’s voice abruptly faded off, as though he had taken the phone away from his mouth. Azirapahle couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. Or, shouting, perhaps. 

“Crowley, dear? Are you there?” 

“I’m here,” Crowley growled suddenly, and Aziraphale could imagine how the words slid through his teeth. 

_ Oh, damn this cock! _

Aziraphale glared sternly at his groin, before adding; “He left rather suddenly after I expressed that I wasn’t interested. Nothing to worry about.” 

“Hmm.” 

“So… you’ll be coming back to London tomorrow then?” 

“Hm, yeah. I have to check in and make sure this politician is heading in the appropriate direction, one quick peek at his habits tomorrow morning to be sure, then I'll be on my way back.” Crowley assured him, still sounding somewhat distracted. 

“Right, well. Excellent. I suppose I’ll talk to you again soon, then.” Aziraphale offered, unsure of what else to say. 

“Hmm, yeah. Oh, angel,” 

“Yes?”

“I’m… I’m glad you called.” 

“As am I, my dear. Please drive carefully tomorrow. Goodnight.” 

“I will make no promises. Goodnight, angel.” 

Aziraphale pulled the phone away from his ear at the sound of the _ click _ and set it back in its cradle. He sat in silence, reflecting over the conversation, and drank the remainder of his tea. It was late, but he wasn’t the type to sleep. Usually he spent the darker hours reading, drinking, or indulging in similar pursuits. 

He wondered if Crowley slept. And then, with a sudden realization, he knew absolutely that he  _ did _ sleep. 

_ It was quiet when Aziraphale entered the hidden place, a place that only he and Crowley knew about. A soft little cottage in the middle of nowhere, with crumbling stone corners and ivy flourishing along its outer walls. It was heavily warded, but Aziraphale felt the wards prod at him gently, cautiously, before acknowledging him and allowing him entry without alarm.  _

_ He shut the front door behind him, walking silently through the dusty sitting room towards the smaller room at the back of the tiny house. He pulled the matches from his coat pocket and lit a nearby candle, carrying it with him throughout the cottage. It was full of stillness and silence.  _

_ Crowley lay motionless, his slender body twisted into the thick cotton and furs, his hair much longer than last time Aziraphale had seen it. He was overcome with such fondness.  _

_ “Hello, my dear.” He said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It's been a little more than fifty years since I’ve seen your lovely eyes gazing at me.” He whispered. Crowley did not stir.  _

_ “The styles have changed again. You’ll probably hate it. You’ll want to cut your hair again.” Aziraphale sighed, reaching out to run his fingers through one soft of lock burnished red, reaching down to the middle of the bed. “I always miss your curls when they’re gone.” He whispered.  _

_ He moved a little closer to the head of the bed frame, to better look upon Crowley’s lax face. He was so beautiful. How Aziraphale wished he could tell him.  _

_ “I know I said we need to lay low, but… I miss you,” He said softly, placing a hand gently on Crowley’s still cheek. “Forgive me, my dear. I know I’ve never asked… but I’ve been feeling rather maudlin of late and to see you after so long… well.”  _

_ He leaned down, so slowly and carefully, and indulged himself in a chaste kiss on Crowley’s cheek. Oh, the tender skin below his lips.  _

_ Something he had never dared do, he had never been brave enough. Theirs was a complicated relationship, to say the least.  _

_ “Come find me when you wake, my dear. I’m being sent to Australia for an assignment. I don’t know for how long. I…” Aziraphale bit his lip, and sighed. “Goodbye, Crowley.” He stood slowly, wishing so badly that those eyes would blink open.  _

_ Crowley slept on, and Aziraphale left him to his slumber.  _

  
  


He blinked himself back to the present, wiping the tears from his cheeks. The memory was still so fresh and painful, leaving him so full of longing. Millenia of longing. 

The pain of missing him so much seemed to bring forth more memories, bit and pieces floating to the surface. Aziraphale cried anew as he recalled the Oysters, the look of outrage on Crowley’s face when-  _ “Not the kids, you can’t kill kids!” _ -and the gift of  _ Hamlet.  _

He remembered more gifts, surprise pears and figs brought across countries just for his enjoyment. Bottles of wine left in his rooms with only a  _ C _ scrawled on their label. Scrolls left for him, and later books. 

  
Aziraphale tried desperately to reach for more, for everything, for  _ anything _ , but still the bulk of their past eluded him. He lingered over the pieces he was able to grasp onto, reliving the few memories that he had rapturously, slowly falling in love with his demon all over again. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two songs in this chapter; 
> 
> Without Me- the Fame on Fire version. (its a cover)  
Filthy Pride- Social Repose
> 
> I hope you enjoy this update! My next update should be Sunday. Things will be heating up soon. ;)

Crowley didn’t arrive back in London until quite late on Tuesday night, due to his temptation going on a little  _ too _ successfully. Suffice to say that his mark had been so enamoured, that upon seeing Crowley creeping around Tuesday morning, he was quite happily reluctant to let him leave. Crowley could still feel the thick grabby fingers on his thigh, and he scowled to himself as he scrubbed his skin raw in the shower. 

He had been so tired afterwards that he slithered in between his silk sheets naked, dozing before he had properly laid his head on the pillow. When he awoke sometime Wednesday, he still felt dazed and groggy, foregoing clothes in favor of an ankle length black silk kimono from his last trip to japan some forty years before. He twisted his hair up into a tangle of curls atop his head, before going in search of coffee. 

It did smell so alluring, after all. He shuffled his way through the atrium, not bothering to give his plants any notice just yet, and reached for a glass mug from the cabinet in his kitchen. He filled his cup, the coffee thick and black and perfect, and inhaled deeply, his tired eyes still closed. It wasn’t until after he took his first sip that he blinked them open, looking down at the coffee pot. 

It had yet to make coffee on its own. The stereo was one thing… but he was fairly certain his coffee pot had not sprouted legs and gone and fetched coffee grounds from the pantry. He blinked into his cup. 

“Goodmorning, my dear.” 

Crowley froze, suddenly wide awake. He turned slowly, body taught, eyes wide with horror. Aziraphale was indeed in sitting on his couch, an open book face down over his knee, a smile on his face as they looked at each other. Then the angels eyes traveled down his body briefly, and Crowley noticed the pink flush in his neck and cheeks. 

Because Crowley was absolutely and without a doubt, completely nude under his silk robe. His body had not quite woken up yet, and it was  _ very obvious.  _

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned, dying probably, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to collect you. I do hope I’m not imposing, Anathema let me in.” The angel had the grace to look embarrassed. 

“Collect me? For what?” Crowley demanded, trying to adjust his robe without being too obvious. Strangely enough, his erection did not seem at all daunted by Aziraphales presence in his flat.  _ On the contrary.  _

“We’re going out, today. That is,” Aziraphale pulled his pocketwatch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. “If you can be dressed and ready to leave within the next hour.” He finished, smiling. 

Crowley stood there with his terrible hair in a bun and his silk kimono, holding his coffee and wondered why the hell he hadn’t sunken through the floor and straight back down into Hell, because this was too much. Aziraphale’s smile, so pleased just by looking at him, made Crowley feel the need to light himself on fire. 

“I’ll just.” He began, and aborted whatever it was that was trying to get out of his mouth. He nodded to himself, walking away from the angel and back towards his room. 

Where he absolutely did not panic, of course not. He swiped his Mobile from his nightstand. 

**You bloody witch, there will be HELL TO PAY -sent**

**Have fun! -Witchy Bitch**

He dressed quickly, then undressed. Dressed again in something different. Undressed again. Yanked at his hair. Growled at his persistent erection. Performed a demonic miracle on his hair. Wanked quickly in the bathroom. Yanked at his hair some more. Dressed again. By the time he returned to the atrium thirty minutes later, once again dressed to kill, he was feeling marginally calmer and more awake. 

“All set then?” Aziraphale asked, lowering his hand. Which was holding a mobile phone. For one terrifying moment, Crowley thought it was his. 

But no, his was in his pocket. 

“Did you get a phone?” He asked, grinning, forgetting to be grouchy for a moment. 

“Ah, I did, yes. Yesterday. I added your number to my contacts, I do hope you don’t mind.” Aziraphale said, with a slow smile that was not at all repentive. 

“Call me,” Crowley said. 

“Now?” Aziraphale frowned, still holding his mobile. 

“Yes, now.” He replied, slipping his own out of his pocket. 

Watching Aziraphale fumble awkwardly with the phone, latest model by the look of it, was simply… adorable. Nasty word, but nothing else suited the way he scrunched up his nose, biting his lip in concentration as he frowned down at the screen. 

After fiddling with it for a full minute, Crowley’s mobile began to vibrate. Immensely pleased, he swiped to answer the call then immediately hung up. 

“What-” Aziraphale began, brow furrowed. 

“Nn.” Crowley sounded, holding up one long finger. He saved the number, then opened up a text conversation. After a moment’s hesitation, he typed;

**Hey there angel -sent**

“Oh, I see.” Aziraphale breathed, obviously delighted. He began typing. And continued typing. As there appeared to be no end to the typing, Crowley began to fidget and retreated to behind the kitchen counter to pour himself another cup of coffee. 

**Hello, my dear. Are you ready to leave? -Unknown**

Crowley snorted, unwillingly fond. That one sentence had taken him four minutes. After deliberating for a moment, he added a name to Aziraphale’s contact number. 

  
  
  


“Where exactly are we going?” Crowley asked aloud, slipping his mobile back into his pocket. 

“Nottingham,” Aziraphale answered, smiling as he stood and clasped his hands together in front of his waist. 

“What’s in Nottingham?” Crowley asked, suspicious as he watched the angel from over the rim of his mug. 

“It’s a surprise!” Aziraphale exclaimed, bouncing a bit in his excitement. Crowley sighed, looking away. It was much too early for that type of nonsense. 

“Now my dear, there’s no rush, so perhaps just…” Aziraphale trailed off, sometime later once they had both slid into the Bentley. Crowley, feeling much more alive after four cups of coffee, smirked. 

“Yes, angel?”

“Perhaps we could just, you know. Go the speed limit?” 

“Where is the fun in that?” Crowley asked easily, as the Bentely began to purr beneath them. 

“It’s just that there’s no rush, my dear. It’s a lovely day-”

“It’s raining. This is England.”

“Rain is lovely, in it’s own way.” His hand clutched the door quickly as Crowley pulled away from the curb. “We could just enjoy the ride,” Aziraphale offered, his voice gone a bit high. 

“I’ll make you a deal, angel. Tell me what the surprise is and I’ll do the speed limit while we’re in city limits. Once we get out of London, bets are off.” 

“But that would ruin the surprise,” Aziraphale chastised, frowning over at Crowley with his big hazel eyes. 

Crowley scoffed, shaking his head and pressing his lips together to hide his smile. He did the speed limit anyway. Well, mostly. 

The Bentley, as a general rule, wasn’t fond of playing anything that wasn’t Queen. Any album that got left in the blaupunkt eventually became Queen’s greatest hits. Even when Crowley tried to play the radio, the Bentley tended to skip around until Queen played. It had never been much of a problem before, as Crowley loved all forms of music, but was most fond of the 80s classics. 

It seemed though, that the Bentley felt a bit differently when Aziraphale was included into the equation. With Aziraphale in the passenger seat, the Bentley seemed  _ Hell bent _ on showing off. 

** _Found you when your heart was broke_ **

** _I filled your cup until it overflowed_ **

** _Took it so far to keep you close _ **

** _I was afraid to leave you on your own_ **

The Bentley had always tended to play its music pretty loud, and Crowley had never really minded, because he was usually driving alone. But with Aziraphale in the car with him it was… different. Especially when the damn car insisted on playing music like  _ this.  _

** _I said I’d catch you if you fall_ **

** _And if they laugh, then fuck ‘em all_ **

** _And then I got you off your knees_ **

** _Put you right back on your feet_ **

** _Just so you can take advantage of me_ **

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek and tried to glower the dashboard into submission, but the bloody thing only went up  _ higher.  _ He snuck a glance over at the angel, who seemed to be far off somewhere, face soft and blank as he gazed out at the countryside. 

** _Tell me how’s it feel sittin’ up there_ **

** _Feeling so high but too far away to hold me_ **

** _You know I’m the one who put you up there_ **

** _Name in the sky_ **

** _Does it ever get lonely?_ **

_ Bloody car! _ Crowley would  _ absolutely _ be having  _ words _ with it when the day was over! 

It went on for over an hour, song after song with suggestive lyrics, and by the time they arrived in Nottingham Crowley was  _ dying _ to be away from the Bentley. 

** _This is what happens when I show you my demons_ **

** _Repeating the cycle that turns love into indifference_ **

** _When I chase after affection, it won’t chase after me_ **

** _I get confused on why we always part so violently_ **

** _But honestly the day I met you I started dying_ **

Crowley’s agitation had gotten so high that his hands were jerking the wheel roughly as they manipulated the car into the directions that Azirapahle pointed out to him. He had attempted once more to turn the volume down, only for the car to turn it up  _ higher again _ , and had refused to try again. 

Strangely enough as Crowley became more and more irritable, Aziraphale seemed to grow more and more at ease. The thick silence between them had grated on Crowley’s nerves, but the angel seemed so lost in thought, occasionally smiling gently as he glanced over in his direction. 

“Everything alright dear?” Aziraphale asked, and  _ oh now the car wanted to turn the music down! _

“Fine,” Crowley gritted out, fuming at the dashboard, “The car is just being uncooperative.” 

“Seems to have been behaving exemplary to me,” Aziraphale smiled, with what Crowley was horrified to recognize as fondness. 

“Are we there yet?” Crowley growled, instead of commenting. 

“Nearly there. Take this next left, please.” 

Crowley did, and felt his bad mood shrivel up and die somewhere in the region of his stomach. 

“Are you bloody joking?” He exclaimed, catching sight of the sign above the entrance. 

“Worth the drive, I do hope? The advert said there would be over thirty vendors, some coming all the way from America! There will be some species native to-”

But whatever species Aziraphale had been about to wax on about, Crowley didn’t know, because he was quite suddenly overcome with the urge to turn and grab the angels soft face with both hands and press their skulls together in some devastating urge to  _ do something.  _

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, and Crowley could smell the cocoa that he must have drank earlier that morning. 

“Nnng,” Crowley bit out, his teeth bared and clenched together against the swift urge to bite, to consume, to take in the angel and hold him inside his own body, to never let him go again. 

“You’re pleased then?” Aziraphale whispered softly, and  _ oh Satan their lips were so close- _

Crowley flung himself away as though Aziraphale had burned him. Chest heaving, he tried to compose himself. 

“Nnn- well. It’s alright, I suppose. We’ll have to go in and have a look around to know for sure.” He attempted, shrugging and pulling his jacket straight. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Aziraphale. He was so gorgeous and perfect and much, much too good for Crowley, he didn’t deserve-

“Then, shall we?” 

Aziraphale offered, his voice a bit weird, and he moved from the car. Crowley took a moment more to compose himself, then followed. 

It was  _ glorious. _

Usually when Crowley got new plants he purchased them online, or from little yard sales, or stole a clipping from a park or a restaurant and rooted them himself. He had never seen such a wide selection to choose from. There were huge beautiful tropicals, lovely little ferns and mosses, exotic cacti and succulents in various colors, and hundreds of flowering and fruit bearing plants. Crowley twitched violently when he caught sight of an Arabica Coffee, taller than himself, with glossy green leaves as wide as his hands. 

“Angel, look,” He insisted.

“Oh it’s beautiful, what is it?” Aziraphale asked, looking over to Crowley with shining eyes. 

“It’s coffee,” Crowley informed him, unable to fully suppress his eager infatuation. “It grows clusters of little while flowers that become a drupe, which contain the seeds. The seeds are coffee beans, you extract the seeds and roast them and voila, coffee.” 

“So you could grow and roast your own beans? That sounds fascinating!” Aziraphale said, eyes shining up at the beautiful tree. 

“In theory, yes,” Crowley murmured, peeking through the leaves, searching for imperfections. 

“We should get it,” Aziraphale offered, looking around the tree for the vendor. 

Crowley paused in his search, not daring to move or look at the angel. 

_ We should get it.  _ Not ‘you’ or ‘i’, but _ we. _

“Yes, hello my good sir, how much for this coffee here?” Aziraphale was asking in that polite little tone he reserved for strangers. 

“This beauty here? This one is twelve years old and has produced many seasons of perfect beans! It is 360.54 euros, well worth it sir. It is pest and disease free, and it comes with a two month health guarantee-”

“Oh yes, thank you, we’ll take it.” Aziraphale said easily, pulling out his wallet. 

“Angel,” Crowley hissed, “This won’t fit in the car.”

“Oh nevermind that my dear, we’ll manage.” Aziraphale smiled,  _ then winked at him _ , before handing some bills to the vendor. Crowley could only watch, fingers twitching at his sides, as Aziraphale chatted easily with the man while he gently placed a tag over one of the branches that read; SOLD. 

“We’re going to look at everything else, and we’ll be back around to pick it up before we leave.” Aziraphale informed the vendor as he slid the receipt into his waistcoat pocket. He turned to look at Crowley. “Ready my dear?” 

“Yeah angel, sure” Crowley replied, sliding his hands into the confines of his pockets where they couldn’t do anything he didn’t approve of. Like touch Azirapahle. Again.

They meandered along the line of tables, discussing different plants, pausing to admire ones here or there. Crowley couldn’t have been more pleased, though he wouldn’t admit it. Azirapahle asked question after question, which plants were his favorites and why, had he grown them before, would he want to. Crowley wasn’t used to such intense inquiries referring to his own personal interests. He was used to asking questions, not answering them. 

Aziraphale was looking at Crowley like he was the bloody Gutenburg Bible, devouring every word. 

“Ohh, look at this poor thing,” The angel tsked once they were nearing the end of the expo, leaning over to peer sadly at a wilting fern. It’s fronds, iridescent and changing from green to blue to purple when healthy, were dry and faded with burnt tips. 

“Rainbow Moss,” Aziraphale read from the tag, frowning. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“Not enough humidity,” Crowley answered, leering at the sad thing. “It’s not actually a moss, it’s a fern. Also goes by Peacock fern, because of it’s shifting colors.”

“But look here, its soil is wet.” 

“Yes but just because you water a thing that doesn’t make the air surrounding it humid enough. A plant like this must be misted often, or kept in an enclosed environment where humidity is carefully controlled.” He explained. 

“Oh, poor pet,” Aziraphale murmured to the thing, touching it gently with the tips of his fingers. Crowley felt a subtle  _ something _ radiating from the angel, and the fern visibly perked up a bit. 

“Now don’t go doing that, you’ll spoil it,” Crowley complained, shuddering with discomfort. 

“I will certainly endeavor to, I’m going to buy it.” 

“I’m not taking that thing, look at it, it’s hideous. Look at its fronds, might as well burn the nasty thing.” Crowley sneered, glowering at it. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chastised seriously, and Crowley flinched. “It is not hideous. It’s beautiful. It just needs a little love and patience, and it will be flourishing. You’ll see.” He said softly, his shining eyes still looking at him. 

“That thing won’t survive in your shop, angel.” Crowley managed, quite serious. “Not in a dry little bookshop like yours.” 

“Well, we’ll just see about that.” Aziraphale countered, before waving the vendor over. 

Crowley could only watch, dazed and a bit confused, as the vendor tried to lower the price of the damaged fern. Aziraphale was having none of it, refusing to pay anything less than what he felt the plant was worth. 

“A little bit of damage doesn’t lower it’s value, not to me.” He insisted, pocketing his receipt and picking the fern up carefully. 

“You’ll need a plant mister.” Crowley said, for lack of anything better to say, as they strolled back towards the coffee tree. 

“Well I’m sure you can help me with that, can’t you?” Aziraphale replied, smiling over at him. 

“Of course, angel.” 

Crowley took the fern from him as Aziraphale strolled over to direct the coffee tree, having the vendor roll it carefully to the entrance and drop it off just outside. He glanced around subtly before leaning in to whisper softly to the tree, something that Crowley could not hear. He felt it though, when the tree disappeared with a surge of heavenly magic. 

“I sent it along to your flat,” He offered, before happily taking the peacock fern back and cradling it carefully in his arm. “Fancy stopping for dinner on the way home?”

_ On the way home.  _

“Only if you allow it to be my treat.” Crowley said solemnly as they strolled towards the Bentley. 

“If you insist, my dear.” 

They stopped just outside of Oxford, pulling their coats close against the chill as they entered a little bistro for a light dinner. Without a wine list, Crowley ordered a cup of tea that he didn’t drink while Aziraphale had a little soup and sandwich. They sat at a crowded little table, their knees almost brushing, but not quite. 

Crowley was...restless. He listened as Aziraphale spoke, he nodded and smiled and replied, but inside he was distracted. He felt an overwhelming sense of… hopelessness. 

From where it originated, he had no idea. Perhaps somewhere deep down in the depths of his soul, when the forgotten bits of Aziraphale resided, out of his reach. He watched the angel, his hands gesturing grandly, his perfectly sweet smile, so pure and bright… and Crowley could only feel his own profound imperfections. He could not have this man, this Heavenly creature, was not meant for him. Not anymore.

They had been one once, yes, but that was a long time ago. Before his Fall. When Crowley was still an angel, when they had been equals. Had Crowley been an angel still, in that moment, nothing could have stopped him from reaching out, from allowing his corporeal body to touch Aziraphale’s again. They had been one. How would it feel to be one again, instead of two? To be with Aziraphale for the rest of eternity, to never be separated from him again?

But he would never know. He was disgraced. Fallen. Unlovable, by his very definition.

It was so painful, to sit there and smile at the angel,  _ to want him so badly.  _

_ Oh God, why are you doing this to me? I’m sorry, for whatever it was. You know I’m sorry. Please, I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want him to Fall.  _

“Crowley, dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale’s question brought him out of his silent prayer, and his gaze refocused. 

_ “It just needs a little love and patience, and it will be thriving. You’ll see.”  _

Aziraphale’s words from earlier, in a voice not quite like his, repeating softly in his mind. 

“Yeah angel, just a bit tired.” Crowley answered, trying to pull himself out of his morbid thoughts. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”

“Yes, it was lovely, thank you. Would you like to head back now? I’ve kept you out all day and you barely slept.” Aziraphale frowned fretfully. 

“Nah, it’s fine. It was… nice.” He assured the angel, hating himself for putting that look on his face. 

“It was, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale smiled softly, his gaze resting somewhat shyly on Crowley’s face and oh, how it ached. 

The drive back to London was quiet, the Bentley kept its rebellious interfering to a low background murmur, and Aziraphale blinked slowly from the ugly fern in his lap to the view of city lights out the passenger window. Crowley couldn’t help but notice his hands, resting on his soft thighs and gently caressing the fern, pouring his warmth and light into the plant. It made Crowley’s skin itch, and he wanted to rub himself along the seats to soothe the burning. 

He pulled the Bentley up to the curb in front of the bookshop, unsure if he should get out and walk Aziraphale to the door or allow him to leave and drive away. The choice was made for him when the angel slipped from the car without saying a word, and Crowley followed slowly, the shake of his hands betraying his nerves. 

“Let me get that,” Crowley called out, when Aziraphale began struggling with the doorknob. 

“Oh, thank you,” He sighed, adjusting his grip on the fern. 

“I’ll stop by tomorrow and bring you a mister for that thing.” Crowley added awkwardly on the doorstep, nodding towards the fern. 

“Excellent, that would be much appreciated. I do hope you enjoy your tree,” 

“Arabica Coffee,” Crowley inserted. 

“Yes, that. Do try to not be too cruel to it, won’t you?”

“Why not? That’s what I do best. Inspire fear and ferment.” Crowley sneered, but it was half hearted. 

“That’s just not true. You have a great capacity for kindness, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley hissed, glancing around them conspiritally, “Watch what you say! You don’t know who could be listening!” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley turned his narrowed eyes from the streets and back towards the angel. He was a step closer than he had been, and Crowley froze. “Do you trust me?”

Crowley hesitated, his skin burning from the heat of whatever Aziraphale was feeling. Swallowing, he nodded. A hand came up to his face slowly, and gently removed his glasses. Suddenly achingly exposed, Crowley could only stare at him, unblinking and terrified. 

To Crowley’s absolute horror, Aziraphale’s gaze flickered to his mouth, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He began to lean in, so slightly. 

Flinching, Crowley stepped back, his rigid spine hitting the brick wall of the alcove over the shop door. 

“You can’t, angel,” He whined, breathless. 

“Do you not want me to?” Aziraphale asked, eyes shining and serious as they stared him down. He still held the fern cradled in one arm, his other hand held Crowley’s glasses extended towards him. 

“That’s not-we just-you’re an  _ angel _ , Aziraphale. I’m a  _ demon _ , you can’t touch me, you’ll-”

“I’ll what? I’ll Fall? I don’t think so, my dear. Do you trust me?” He asked again, his voice so soft, so assuring. Crowley’s knees were shaking, and he hoped to  _ Someone  _ that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. 

“Please, angel,” Crowley gasped, in agony, unsure of what he was begging for. 

“Crowley, my love. Do you trust me?” 

_ My love _ . Oh, that was it, wasn’t it? The painful burning on his skin, the heat, the light radiating from Aziraphale all the time, sometimes burning bright and sometimes simmering lowley, but always there.  _ It was love.  _

“Yes,” Crowley nearly sobbed, breaking apart. 

By some small miracle, Aziraphale sent the fern safely to the ground near their feet and stepped once again into Crowley’s space, both hands coming to cradle his jawline. His hands were  _ so warm.  _ Shaking, Crowley gripped his wrists, not to push him away but to hold himself steady. 

Aziraphale pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, breathing in his air. 

“Oh, my dear. It’s been too long for us, hasn’t it?” He whispered, and Crowley didn’t know, he had no idea, all he knew was _ yes, yes it's been too long, _ and Aziraphale was kissing him. 

It was chaste, a firm pressure, assuring and unrelenting. Aziraphale, who was always so soft and gentle and unassuming, was solid against him. His touch was sure, there were no doubts in the curve of his fingers as they slid down Crowley’s neck. There was no tremble in the press of his lips. Crowley could feel himself aching, overcome with the emotion in the air around them. 

It was over rather quickly, and Crowley stood pressed against the wall panting, his eyes wide and unblinking. 

“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t resist. You’ve been so lovely today.” Aziraphale sighed, his lips red and shining. He reached up again, slowly sliding Crowley’s glasses back up his nose. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope?”

“Yeah, angel, whatever you want,” Crowley could only whisper breathily, his too human heart thundering in his too human body. 

“Tomorrow, then. Goodnight, my dearest.” 

And then, with one last lingering look and great mercy, Aziraphale left him alone on the doorstep to gather the broken pieces of himself back together. 

  
  
  


_ “Aziraphale! Where are you! What's- angel, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Crowley urged, dropping to his knees upon catching sight of him sitting on the floor, his hands lingering in the air around him. His hair was short this year, gelled to the side, the collar of his crisp white shirt was high. His dark glasses were smaller, but he had forgone the thick mustache that was in fashion in favor of a clean shave. He looked immaculate, as usual. Aziraphale sobbed harder.  _

_ “It’s-he’s, oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, unable to speak properly through the thickness of his throat. Crowley pulled a white linen square from his breast pocket and handed it over. Aziraphale blew his nose loudly. “Thank you, my dear.” He sniffed.  _

_ “What happened?” Crowley asked again, gently.  _

_ “It’s Pyotr- Tchaikovsky. He’s passed away.” Aziraphale sniffed, unable to control the tremble of his lower lip. Aziraphale pulled the small square paper out of his pocket, where the death had been announced that morning.  _

_ “The Russian composer?” Crowley asked, frowning as he took the paper and scanned over it. Aziraphale nodded, blowing his nose again.  _

_ “You were friends?” Crowley asked.  _

_ “Yes. He is- was a lovely man. He made such.. .such beautiful music.” Aziraphale weeped.  _

_ “Oh, angel.” Crowley sighed, before slowly wrapping one slim arm around Aziraphale’s shaking shoulders.  _

_ They stayed like that for some time, on the floor of Aziraphale’s rooms, not speaking. He cried out the pain in his heart for his dead friend, and even though it must have been so incredibly uncomfortable for Crowley to witness, he never complained. Later, when the sun had fallen low enough to cast the room in shadow, Aziraphale pulled his head away from Crowley’s shoulder and sighed.  _

_ “Thank you.”  _

_ “Don’t thank me, angel.” He replied gently, hesitating before adding; “I have to go. I was in the middle of an assignment. I have to finish or Hell will have my bollocks. Do you… will you be alright?”  _

_ “Oh, yes. I’ll be fine. It was just a shock, finding out like that. I’m sorry for distracting you from your work.” Aziraphale offered, smiling painfully.  _

_ “Nonsense. I’ll always… be here. For you.” Crowley said, in a rare moment of complete honesty.  _

_ “I know.” Aziraphale whispered. And he did know. It was with one more lingering look that Crowley left him, still on the floor. Some time later when Aziraphale finally deigned to rise and go about his business, the handkerchief fell from his lap. There was a C embroidered on one edge.  _

  
  
  


_ Eight years after Tchaikovsky died, Aziraphale was standing on the balcony of his miniscule Berlin flat, drinking a glass of wine after a miracle well performed. It was late evening, and he was enjoying the sun sinking over the horizon, in love with the view as he was with all beautiful things.  _

_ The handkerchief was still in his pocket. He had taken to slipping his hand in to rub his fingers over the small square of linen, religiously well kept just as all of his private possessions were. It was in this position that he found himself, glass of wine in one hand and touching the cloth in his pocket in the other as he stood on the balcony. His breath fogged the air in front of his face, and he shivered. He was debating to grab his coat or retire inside for the evening when there was a soft knock on his door.  _

_ Interest piqued, he pulled his hand from his pocket and went to answer the door. Waiting in the dim lamplight was Crowley, his hair just a bit longer but still parted to the side and slicked down onto his head, wearing a black hat and suit that made him look quite fit.  _

_ “Hallo engel,” He smiled. He was carrying a small case in his left hand.  _

_ “Crowley, dear, how lovely to see you.” Aziraphale exhaled happily, stepping back to let him in.  _

_ Crowley sauntered into the tiny flat, looking around with interest.  _

_ “What brings you to Berlin?” Aziraphale asked, shutting the door and moving to his dining table to pour a second glass of wine.  _

_ “Oh, you know. This and that.” Crowley said airily, turning to gently set his case on the table. He nodded in silent thanks when Aziraphale handed him his glass.  _

_ “Business or pleasure?” _

_ “Hm, bit of both. Personal business, mostly.”  _

_ “Oh?” Aziraphale questioned, one hand lingering over his pocket.  _

_ “Yeah, I wanted to show you something.” Crowley managed, somewhat haltingly.  _

_ “Shall we sit?” Aziraphale asked, curious.  _

_ “Nnng, perhaps on the balcony?” Crowley looked around at the still open balcony doors, and Aziraphale happily obliged. He took both of his rickety table chairs out and sat them down in the crisp air, where Crowley joined him. They sat opposite each other, only a handful of feet of space between them. Crowley had brought the case and sat it down next to his chair.  _

_ “Now, don’t go getting any funny ideas or… talking. Don’t… talk. Alright?” Crowley asked, strained, fidgeting as he was apt to do when he was nervous. Frowning, but silent, Aziraphale nodded.  _

_ “Good. Well, then. I’ll just get on with it.”  _

_ And get on with it, he certainly did. He drained the rest of his glass in one large swallow, his long throat convulsed in a way no mere humans could, and sat his glass down gently. Then he picked up the small case and laid it in his lap, opening it to reveal a gorgeous Stradivarius violin. Aziraphale could not contain his gasp, but true to his word he did not speak. Crowley did not look at him, merely removed the instrument from it’s velvet bed and placed it on his shoulder, grasping the bow carefully.  _

_ And he began to play. Haltingly, carefully, and without the fluidity of a learned player. But the music, oh! The sound was perfect. He was on key, and his timing was excellent. As soon as the lovely sound made its way into Aziraphale’s ears, he knew.  _

_ Crowley had learned to play, after Tchaikovsky’s death. The song he was playing was one of Tchaikovsky’s very own, and one of Aziraphale’s absolute favorites. Unable to control himself, he began to cry. Great, traitorous tears falling slowly from his eyes, and without thinking Aziraphale pulled the handkerchief from his pocket to pat his face, determined not to make a sound, lest Crowley stop.  _

_ Crowley must have spent the last eight years practicing, to do this.  _

_ When the final note faded, Crowley’s fingers were shaking around the bow. He lowered the violin from his shoulder and rested in across his lap, clearing his throat. Nervously, he looked to Aziraphale.  _

_ Who was still patting his eyes, which must have gone quite red.  _

_ “Oh-don’t- don’t do that, angel, don’t cry.” Crowley complained, grimacing.  _

_ “I’m so sorry, my dear. That was just so beautiful, Crowley. Could you play it again? Please?” Aziraphale pleaded, blinking over at him as he gripped his handkerchief. Crowley’s eyes lingered on it, enclosed in his fist, and Aziraphale bit his lip.  _

_ “Sure, angel.” He said softly, the barest of smiles on his thin, lovely mouth. He rose the Stradivarius to his shoulder again.  _

  
  


He stared at the picture on his phone, sent to him from Anathema only two days before. Crowley standing on stage, as beautiful as ever in his red dress,  _ oh the lines of him _ . Aziraphale could have gazed at him forever and been content, his love for reading satisfied in the study of his face and form, his love for food and other delicious earthly things satisfied in the memory of Crowley’s mouth so pliant and delectable under his own. 

He ached for things he had never ached for before. Such terrible, beautiful human things. Things no proper angel should even think of,  _ but oh _ , Aziraphale did. 

He also ached for things beyond human comprehension. Things that would bring not just their corporeal forms together, but their very souls. Aziraphale, with all that he was, wanted to share himself with Crowley. He wanted to share his thoughts and dreams, his tea and his wine, his shop and his quaint little life. But he also wanted to share his light, his love, his  _ eternity _ . 

If only Crowley would let him. 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear friends, I hope you enjoy this update. This chapter had to be split into two in order to do it justice, so its the usual length but not as much happens as I had planned. Very sorry. Next chapter will be a good one though. There will be a WALL SCENE. YOU KNOW THE ONE. ;)
> 
> The song in this chapter is;
> 
> Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy by (yep) QUEEN.

**Breakfast? -sent**

Crowley sat his phone down on the counter and began to pour his coffee, glaring around at his plants. He sent a particularly nasty scowl at his new prize, which had not yet gotten the picture of how things were run around here. 

Crowley had placed it in the center of the room, just off the back of his couch, where it would get plenty of the indirect light that it needed to flourish. It was a masterpiece, to be plain. Crowley was quite smitten with it, not that he would ever admit it aloud to  _ any _ soul, living or otherwise. 

He stalked around the counter slowly, grabbing the mister as he went. He sprayed here and there on his way around the room. 

“Perk up, you’re drooping. It’s indecent.” He snarled to his Ivy. 

_ “Oh, my dear. It’s been too long for us, hasn’t it?” _

He knew. He  _ had _ to know. So… why hadn’t he just _ said something?  _ Crowley couldn’t fathom it. Was Aziraphale waiting on him to say something? Was it their respective sides holding him back? Did he just expect Crowley to already know? Had Aziraphale known the entire time, and was it just himself that hadn’t remembered? He hadn’t the faintest bloody idea and it was driving him  _ mad.  _

“Unfurl those new leaves by tonight or  _ Satan help you _ .” He hissed to his Monstera. 

How the hell was Crowley supposed to act, what was he supposed to do? He  _ wanted. _ But he  _ couldn’t _ . An angel and a demon, for fucks sake. If it had been any old angel, sure, he would have tempted away. What the fuck would he care if he caused an angel to Fall? Bunch of uptight feathery fuckwads, strutting around like they own the damned world. But it wasn’t any old angel. It was Aziraphale who was pure and perfect and, Crowley was growing more and more sure by each passing day, all of the good parts of himself taken out and put into a separate person, leaving him a sad fleshy knot of anger and bad habits. 

What the fuck was God even thinking, sending him here, giving Crowley those memories back?  _ What did that even mean?! _

By the time he made it around to the coffee, every other plant in the room was shaking violently. The coffee remained stoic. 

He stood studying it, searching for imperfections and, infuriatingly, found none. He jabbed the mister up in it’s direction, spraying it angrily. His phone chimed from the counter and he glanced over to it before looking back to the Arabica Coffee. 

“I’ll be back.” He threatened, before spraying it once more and retreating back to the kitchen. He placed the mister back on the counter and grabbed his still hot coffee to sip it before he picked up his phone. There was a message from Aziraphale. Crowley swiped it open. 

He dropped his cup and it shattered over the granite countertop, splashing hot coffee all down his front. He hissed angrily, jumping back while gripping his phone in both hands with white knuckles. 

It was a picture. Aziraphale, holding the phone out with the camera turned in reverse, to capture his face. He was standing at the till, where he had placed the Peacock Fern. He held one arm around it lovingly, and was smiling brightly up at the phone. 

He was so bloody perfect and it made Crowley want to  _ scream.  _

Suddenly the phone, the expo, the picture, it all made sense. 

Crowley scrambled a demonic miracle over his clothes to rid himself of the coffee and stormed out of his flat and into the elevator. Two floors below he was banging angrily on Anathema’s door. 

“Open up, witch! I know you’re in there!” He shouted angrily, banging his fist on the wooden door without stopping. Eventually it opened, but it wasn’t Anathema standing there, it was Newt. 

“Where is she?” Crowley growled. Newt, lanky and wide eyed in his wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, his hair still a mess from sleep, pointed silently in the direction of the bedroom. Crowley shoved passed him. 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, woman!” He demanded, bursting into the dim bedroom. Anathema was just sliding up and leaning back against the pillows, blinking at him blearily. “The plant expo, the phone, that was  _ you _ wasn’t it! What gives you the-I don’t know why you have to-nng! He sent me a fucking picture just now, Anathema! A picture of himself with this ugly little half dead fern he bought yesterday, and he’s all smiling and it’s just- I can’t-why would you!” He screeched, pacing angrily back and forth in front of the bed as she slowly took her glasses from her bedside table and slid them onto her nose. 

“And last night!  _ Last night, Anathema _ ! Do you have  _ any idea- _ ”

“Crowley,” She interrupted easily. 

“What!” He nearly bellowed, running a hand through his hair in agitation. 

“Did you have a good time?” She asked then, pleasantly. 

“Of course I did, you witch! You are a terrible friend! I don’t know what I ever did to deserve such a curse as you! And that is saying something because I have done some reeeeeally terrible things-”

“You’re welcome.” She cut in, smirking at him. 

“Nnng! Thank you!” He hissed at her, before turning on his heel to find Newt in the doorway, quite alarmed. “Make this woman some fucking breakfast! She’s earned it!” He shouted at the poor man, before shoving passed and stomping his way out of the flat. 

  
  
  
  


“Perhaps the picture was a bad idea?” Aziraphale murmured to his fern as he leaned over the counter, gazing fretfully at his phone. Which had not yet received a response, some fifteen minutes later. There was a low and unfamiliar click and he turned to find the sound, only to hear music beginning to play. 

Crowley’s cursed stereo, indeed. Aziraphale leaned against the counter, curious. 

** _I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things_ **

** _We can do the tango just for two_ **

** _I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings_ **

** _Be your Valentino just for two_ **

“Oh, goodness,” Aziraphale tsked, smiling, his cheeks warm. “I do enjoy the tango.” He murmured, looking down at his fern. 

** _Ooh love ooh loverboy_ **

** _What’re you doin’ tonight, hey boy_ **

** _Set my alarm, turn on my charm_ **

** _That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned lover boy_ **

** _Ooh let me feel your heartbeat (grow faster, faster)_ **

** _Ooh ooh can you feel my love heat, ooh_ **

** _Come on and sit on my hot-seat of love_ **

** _And tell me how do you feel right after-all_ **

** _I’d like for you and I to go romancing_ **

** _Say the word, your wish is my command_ **

“ _ Oh _ , you’re being  _ naughty _ !” He exclaimed softly, embarrassed, trying to purse his lips sternly at the stereo, but somehow smiling instead. 

Aziraphale had thought of it, of course. On many occasions, by this point. He had thought of Crowley, in just about every way. In any way. In all of the ways. He was, unfortunately, a rather greedy and indulgent angel. He had thought of him naked and eager, just as he had thought of him soft in sleep, or loud with joy or anger. Crowley was fascinating in every aspect, and Aziraphale wanted to enjoy all of him. 

Not that he had any experience. Humans were quite fleeting, and it was so easy to love. He had never quite been able to bring himself to do it, afraid of the pain that came with their inevitable death. 

He had read quite a bit though, and though their lives were transient, they had a tendency to use that time to gather as much pleasure as possible. 

And they did love to tell stories. Many of them rather… explicit. 

No, Aziraphale had never practiced the more base carnal acts, but it couldn’t be said he didn’t know them  _ in theory.  _

** _When I’m not with you_ **

** _I think of you always_ **

** _(I miss those long hot summer nights) I miss you_ **

** _When I’m not with you_ **

** _Think of me always_ **

** _Love you, love you_ **

He would love to put the vast stores of his knowledge to use, exploring every bit of Crowley’s body, soft bits and bony bits alike. His fantasies had grown lately, from more innocent scenarios where Crowley would feed him indulgently from his own long fingers, or allow Aziraphale to run his fingers through his soft curls to indecent acts that led to heat and slick, naked bodies. He imagined how his demon would taste, how he would sound, how he would look and feel. 

** _Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine precisely_ **

** _(One two three four five six seven eight nine o’ clock)_ **

** _I will pay the bill, you taste the wine_ **

** _Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely_ **

** _Just take me back to yours that will be fine (come on and get it)_ **

“Angel? You in there?” 

Aziraphale jumped, nearly knocking his phone off the counter, flushed from his imaginings. Crowley stood across the counter, watching him with his head tilted to the side, one hand in his pocket and the other carrying a take away bag. 

“Yes, I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” He hurried, tugging his waistcoat down. 

“I called out. Looked like you were daydreaming,” Crowley said, grinning. 

** _Ooh love, (there he goes again just like a good old fashioned lover boy)_ **

** _Ooh loverboy_ **

** _What’re you doin’ tonight, hey boy_ **

** _Everything’s all right_ **

** _Just hold on tight_ **

** _That’s because i’m a good old fashioned fashioned lover boy_ **

The last notes of the song were loud in the silence between them, and Crowley was smirking at him. 

“How’s that working out for ya?” He asked, nodding at the stereo. 

“Oh, it’s. It’s fine.” Aziraphale managed, swallowing, trying not to look too closely at his demon. “What have you got there?” 

“Breakfast. A bagel from down the street, and they didn’t have cocoa so I got you tea.” Crowley offered, placing the bag on the counter carefully before pulling out the cup holder in which he had placed two steaming cups and an empty plant mister. Alongside their drinks was a smaller bag, from which Aziraphale could smell the lemon and poppy bagel. One of his favorites. 

“Oh, you spoil me!” He said, delighted. 

“Nnneh, well.” Crowley shrugged, taking his own coffee, and placing the mister on the counter as he leaned down to inspect the Peacock fern with his practiced eye. “What have you been doing to it?” He asked, frowning. 

“I haven’t done anything. Well, I’ve been chatting to it. Just a bit. I may have read a bit to it, as well. Oh and I used a little damp cloth to wipe down its fronds. It seems to enjoy a bit of steam from the kettle, so I’ve taken to placing it nearby when I make tea. No direct light though! I’ve been doing a bit of research.” Aziraphale held up one stern finger here, “Dim or indirect light only. So I’ve kept it away from the windows. It seems to enjoy Wilde more than Poe. I can’t say I disagree, Wilde has more-”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted, eyes wide and face sour as he straightened up to stand properly. “You can’t be so soft on it. You’ve got to let it know you're the boss, how else are you supposed to make sure it behaves?” He asked, incredulous. 

“But I’m not the boss,” Aziraphale insisted patiently, “I am it’s friend.” 

“Nnnng! No, look. You’ve got to put the fear of, well-you, in them. Otherwise they’ll think they can just do whatever they want. They could get parasites or start wilting or grow in the wrong direction or-”

Crowley continued on with his rant, explaining in great detail all manor of ways his plant could revolt if he wasn’t careful, and Aziraphle pictured all of the gorgeous plants in Crowley's otherwise bare flat. He had only been inside twice, but he well remembered the spartan look of it. Crowley barely kept anything, unless it was obscure art or plants. Every single one of them had been lovely, waxy green and in perfect health from as far as Aziraphale could remember. 

“-and if that demonstration doesn’t work, then sometimes I take it a step further and grab a pair of pliers, some beezwax, and a large bowling ball. It has to be a big one, biggest you’ve got, and then I-”

It was with silent growing horror that the situation began to become clear to him. Crowley’s lovely atrium, which had reminded Aziraphale of the Garden of Eden the very first time he had seen it, had been literally  _ terrified into submission.  _

“-sometimes I use a different technique that I learned from Hell, it’s a bit nasty to be honest, but it gets the job done. They know I hate leaf spots-nothing gets me going like damn leaf spots, angel- so in Hell they have this thing called a  _ Licky Dicky. _ It’s less effective on plants than it is on people, but it works well enough. So I get a bunch of salt and a goat- I know a guy- anyway, so-”

His poor dear demon, who had been cast out of the Garden, had made a Garden of his own and ruthlessly tortured anything that showed even a hint of a flaw. 

“-but most of the time I’m too lazy to do all of that anyway, so I just shout at them for a bit and take the ones who have displeased me and toss them down the garbage disposal. That way there’s no clean up. I usually leave the empty pot for a while, so they can see it and be reminded of what happens if they get any ideas.” Crowley shrugs upon finishing his rant, and takes a long drink of his coffee. 

His repressed guilt for Falling, the thing he hated most about himself, being inverted and funneled into control and perfectionism in the only way he knew how; by ensuring his own Garden was immaculate. There would be no Questions or Flaws in Crowley’s Garden. There would be no Disobedience, no Choice. Not in Crowley’s Garden. The consequences were severe. His plants would fall in line and be perfect, or they would be destroyed. 

Just like he had been. 

“Angel? Angel-Aziraphale, what in the seven bloody hells! Stop that, right this instant! I’m serious, that ssstings!” Crowley was taking a step back, scratching at the exposed skin of his neck and face, running agitated fingers through his hair. 

Overcome, Aziraphale lowered his face, pressing fingers to his burning eyes. He immediately pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, the one he carried with him always without thinking twice about it. He patted his eyes. 

“So sorry, my dear, I just- ah, need a moment.” He stammered, turning from Crowley and retreating to the back room of his shop. His shoulders shook as he fell down onto the couch, and he let his head fall back to rest on the back. 

  
  
  


_ Aziraphale spluttered in what was surely a most unattractive manner, nearly spitting out his drink.  _

_ “Haven’t you been listening to me?” He demanded, jerking the napkin across his damp lips.  _

_ “I always listen to you, angel.” Crowley groaned loudly, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but glance around to see if anyone was watching them. The club was crowded, he had chosen this one specifically to help them blend in. “I just don’t agree with you.”  _

_ “We have to be more cautious. Meeting like this is just… it’s careless. We’re going to get caught. We have to stop.”  _

_ “That’s the point! We wouldn’t have to stop if we just left!” _

_ “And where would we go?” Aziraphale demanded, looking across the table at his companion. The recent years and their tortures had taken their toll. Crowley looked dreadful, pale and worn, even thinner than usual.  _

_ “I dunno… alpha centauri.” He threw out with a wave of his hand.  _

_ “You’re joking,” Aziraphale spat out, incredulous, shaking his head.  _

_ “I’m not. I’ve heard it’s beautiful this time of year. And it’s far away from all of this. From Heaven and Hell, from-” _

_ “We can’t just pack up and leave together, Crowley. It’s just not done.”  _

_ “Why the bloody hell not?” _

_ “Well because… because they’d…” _

_ “They’d nothing. Exactly. What could they do? This world is going to shite, angel. How long have we been friends? Let’s leave. Let’s just go off together. No more worrying about Upstairs or Downstairs or rules or paperwork.”  _

_ “Friends? We’re not friends! We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common! I don’t even like you!” Aziraphale cried out fretfully, the words like barbs in his mouth, ripping bloody gashes in his very soul.  _

_ It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the possibility of Heaven and Hell finding out about the two of them. The possibility of Crowley being destroyed for it.  _

_ “You do!” Crowley argued, his face twisting.  _

_ “Even if I could just pack up and leave with you, I wouldn’t. We’re on opposite sides!” _

_ “We’re on our side!” _

_ “There is no our side!” _

_ The entire exchange had been one of the most painful moments of Aziraphale’s very long existence. He couldn’t have imagined a worse torment for a gluttonous, hedonistic, blasphemous angel such as himself, and he had been certain that the shattered look on Crowley’s face and the aborted words that wouldn’t pass his thin lips would haunt him for the rest of his eternal life.  _

_ Until only a few hours later, when he had been abruptly called into Head Office.  _

_ “We’ve been through this, Principality. You will stop this fraternizing at once. It’s bad for business. The numbers are too even. This is your final warning.” Micheal ordered severely, skin shimmering in the bright lights of Head Office.  _

_ “I assure you, I’m not! I just happened to run into him, it’s not like I sought him out! Quite unexpected!” Aziraphale insisted, laughing nervously, trying and failing to maintain eye contact.  _

_ “This is the third time this century that you’ve been seen in the company of the demon Crowley. Last time we reprimanded you-” Gabriel intoned, as though reading the words from a report.  _

_ “Now wait just a moment, if you don’t mind, but what last time? This is the first time that I’ve been warned. Warning certainly received! I shall take great care in the future to stay as far as possible-”  _

_ “No, this is your second.” Gabriel argued, his thick brows one solid line across his eyes.  _

_ “Actually, I think this is the first time since the last memory deletion.” Micheal murmured, squinting into the distance.  _

_ “Is it? I can’t remember. There have been so many by now.” Grabriel complained, glancing at Micheal.  _

_ “Now hang on, memory deletion? You’ve wiped my memories? More than once?” He demanded, rather indignant. “What in Heaven for! You had no right, I am most certain! I demand to speak-”  _

_ “This is becoming ridiculous. We need to just kill him.” Gabriel stated, as though Aziraphale hadn’t spoken.  _

_ “Kill me?” Aziraphale wheezed, taking a step back.  _

_ “No, not you, you idiot. We’d never get clearance for that. I mean Crowley.”  _

_ Kill Crowley? No. No, they couldn’t. He was demon, sure, but… but he was good. He was kind. He was… special, to Aizraphale. He hadn’t really known why, but his own feelings were becoming clearer by the second.  _

_ “We might as well. This Spanish Inquisition nonsense, I mean really. Something has to be done.” Micheal agreed easily.  _

_ “Would be easier to pull our numbers back up without him slithering about down there.” Gabriel mused nastily.  _

_ “No, you can’t! You musn’t!” Aziraphale pleaded, panicking. “I’ll- I’ll do anything. Just leave him be. He didn’t even start it, it was the humans who-” _

_ “Either Crowley is eliminated or your memories will be taken again. This comradeship the two of you keep forming is getting entirely out of hand. The rumors going around, honestly. It’ll cause a reform.” Micheal ranted.  _

_ “Yikes, a reform. That’s a lot of paperwork.” Gabriel added, his face comically disturbed.  _

_ Aziraphale did not find it funny, not in the least.  _

_ “Yes, okay. Take my memories. Just please, leave him alone. Let him be.” Aziraphale whispered brokenly.  _

_ How many times had this been done to him? How many times had it been done to them both? _

_ “Works for me.” Gabriel said, uncaringly. “Report to office 374 immediantly for memory altering.” _

  
  
  
  


“Angel?” Came the quiet question. 

Aziraphale turned, his eyes sore, to blink at Crowley in the doorway to the back room. 

“Did I upset you? About the plants? Look, I’m sorry. I won’t talk about it again. It was probably a bit much for you, wasn’t it? Stupid of me. I didn’t-”

“Crowley, dearest, come here.” Aziraphale requested softly, patting the cushion next to him as he wiped his eyes once more before stowing the handkerchief back in his pocket. 

“Uh, yeah, alright,” Crowley stammered, before slinking his long body into the room and onto the couch. He sat sprawled as carelessly as always, but pressed against the other arm, with as much space between them as possible. “I’m sorry,” He murmured again, not looking at Aziraphale. 

“You have nothing to apologize for, my love.” Aziraphale sighed, looking at his sharp profile. Crowley had gone very still. Aziraphale doubted he was even breathing. 

“Do you… remember? Before, I mean? Any of it?” Aziraphale asked, his chest aching. 

Crowley’s gaze snapped to him as a bow string snaps upon release. 

“Uh, only a bit.” He breathed. 

“Then you do know… that we’ve been together before this?” Aziraphale clarified carefully, treating the tension between them as one would a very large and unreliably built explosive. 

Crowley nodded, just once, his throat convulsing as he swallowed. 

“Then, with this knowledge in mind, I hope you can forgive me for my previous forwardness… and permit me to continue as I have been?” He asked, his heart in his throat, hoping to God that he looked calm so as to steady Crowley’s nerves. 

“Angel, you… you’ve done nothing that you need to ask forgivenessss for.” Crowley stammered, lisping. “And… there isn’t anything you could ever do that would lessen... the way I… feel. About you.” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the emotion welling up in stomach, rather like an insistent balloon just behind his sternum, and held out an arm. 

“Come here, darling. Please.” 

And amazingly, Crowley did. He unwound himself slowly, watching Aziraphale intently as though waiting for him to withdraw his extended arm and yell  _ ‘only joking, begone foul creature!’. _ When no such reprimand occured, he slithered his long body into the space Aziraphale made for him, laying back against his legs with his long arms tightly enclosing the angel’s middle. He nudged his pointy nose up into Aziraphale’s neck and inhaled deeply, his chest expanding. 

It was  _ perfect.  _ Crowley fit into the space around Aziraphale like he was made for it, his sharp angles snug in Aziraphale’s softer edges. One arm wound around his bony shoulders, while the other traveled along his collar bones and up his neck to wind fingers through Crowley’s hair, and breathed in the smell of him. Rain and salt, something earth, and something achingly familiar. To Aziraphale, he smelled like love. He smelled like home. 

They stayed that way for a while in silence. Azirapahle was in no hurry to speak, for though he loved words so very much, sometimes the best stories were seen and felt, not spoken. Had they ever done this before? He couldn’t recall. He couldn’t trust his own memories. How much had been taken? 

Too much, he decided. Entirely too much. 

  
  
  
  


“What time do you get off today?” Anathema asked, still in panties and Newt’s t-shirt, even though it had been over an hour since Crowley had come in and woken her up with his tantrum. 

“Um, early today, I think. Why?” Newt asked, as he laced up his shoes. 

“Want to go out for dinner?” 

“Oh, yeah? Sure. A date?” He asked, smiling so happily, as though he still couldn’t quite believe she  _ liked _ him. 

“Something like that. I’m going to invite the new shop owner from across the street. And Crowley.” 

“Ah…” Newt articulated inelegantly, his smile faltering. 

“Don’t worry, love, he’ll be too busy to bully you.” She grinned at him, before pulling him up from his chair for a kiss. 

“Well in that case,” He confirmed, breathless and staring at her as if she were Heaven itself. Which, to be fair, she was. For Newt, anyway. 

Soulmates were a powerful thing, Agnes had always said. 

“Be home by six?” She asked. 

“Yes,” He agreed, before he kissed her again. 

A few minutes later, when he had convinced himself to release her and leave for work, she finished her tea and went to dress. 

It was a beautiful day for London, there had been many beautiful days lately. The entire area of downtown Soho had been quite nice for over a month, less honking and screaming on the streets below, the temperatures mild, even the air smelled sweeter. 

The origin of these strange occurrences were quite obvious to a talented occultist like Anathema. Aziraphale’s bookshop had done great things indeed for their neighborhood. As she crossed the street, even the pavement in front of his doors were free of grime and litter. 

The shop was quiet and still when she entered, with no sign of the angel and demon within. Their aura’s, however, were very plain. Anathema had never seen anything like it. 

Crowley had quite an immense aura on his own. He was an old creature, and a powerful one. The same could be said for Aziraphale, but whereas Crowley’s aura was a dark and devious thing, a thin layer of playful mischief covering a squishy inside made of pain and guilt and self loathing- Aziraphale’s could be considered its exact opposite. His was bright, warm and soft, layered over a core of strength.. A shield, made of love and patience. 

With such immensely different entities, no one would have expected them to interact the way they did. Which is to say; they didn’t so much  _ collide _ as they did _ combine.  _

She could see it, coming from the back of the shop. A gentle marriage of two opposing forces, creating something entirely different as a whole. It was quite… ineffable. 

“Hello? Anyone in?” She called out, testing and watching. Their aura, because it was one, fluttered gently, before one gently extracted from the other. Crowley, darkening as he separated, leaving Aziraphale’s bright one as a solitary entity once again. 

It was surprisingly painful to witness. 

“Yes, I’m in, so sorry! Popped into the back room for a cuppa- oh! Anathema dear, how do you do?” Aziraphale asked so sweetly, upon seeing her. 

“I’m fine,” She smiled, but it was an effort. “I wanted to come and see if perhaps if you wanted to go to dinner this evening?” 

“I would be delighted!” Aziraphale exclaimed, clapping his hands together with a luminous smile. 

“Wasssat?” Crowley grouched, coming around the entryway that Aziraphale had just appeared from. 

“Oh, there you are. I was looking for you.” Anathema informed him. “Want to go to dinner tonight?” 

“Why would I want to do that?” He sniffed, frowning. 

“Oh do come, dear. It’ll be such fun!” 

“Wait, you’re going?” Crowley pointed at him, before swiveling back to Anathema. “This isn’t some double date shite is it?” 

“Well, Newt will be coming. So yes, essentially. What do you think about sushi?” Anathema asked Aziraphale. 

“Oh I haven’t had sushi in  _ ages _ !”

“Now just hang on,” Crowley complained, “What are you up to?” He demanded of Anathema. 

“What do you mean?” She asked, widening her brown eyes in the perfect picture of innocence. 

“Come now, Crowley. It’ll be fun! We would love to come. What time?” Aziraphale asked, effectively removing Crowley from the conversation, as he stood spluttering behind the angel.  _ What a useful talent.  _

“Say around seven?” 

_ “Perfect.” _

  
  
  
  


He had ordered the drink because it was the same color as his eyes, but when he tried it out of curiosity he was appalled to find it sour and completely unagreeable. He would fail to see the irony in that. 

Gabriel sat at a bar, someplace with glossy dark woods and low lighting and a low background murmur of conversation, because it appealed to his idea of a secret meeting. He didn’t know enough about humanity to realize that a quiet place like this was actually one of the worst places to have secret meetings, because he could be so easily overheard. Which is exactly what Beelzebub told him when they arrived, quietly impressed with the greatness of his idiocy. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” He told them, rolling his eyes. “No one is listening in. I made sure.” He tapped his temple consipiratally. 

“Any news?” Beezlebub inquired, to the point. 

“From what we can tell, it’s going the same it does every time.” He admitted sourly, sighing down at his little purple drink. 

“That is unfortunate.” 

“Indeed. We’re going to give it a little more time to be absolutely sure, but from the looks of it we’re going to have to pull them out and wipe them again.” 

“Can’t you just replace him with a different agent?” Beezlebub asked, scowling. 

“Unfortunately, no. We tried. We were told it has to be Aziraphale, just as much as it has to be Crowley. Some ridiculous crap about balance or something, I don’t know.” Gabriel shrugged, crossing his arms. 

Of course they had asked. He and Micheal both had asked if they could pull Aziraphale out of the field and send someone else. Someone with a better chance of winning. The memo they had gotten in return had been full of words like;  _ choice _ and  _ balance  _ and _ design _ . Full of just about everything except an actual explanation. 

_ Mysterious ways _ , and all that. 

Privately, Gabriel had his own suspicions. The Fall had been a long time ago, and even his and Micheals memories had been altered. But he knew that there had been seven of them, in the beginning. 

Now there were only four. 

Selephiel and Uriel pretty much kept to themselves these days. Or, rather, they kept to each other. They alone had not been separated. The three that were lost to them; Lucifer, who had been Micheals, and the other two whose names had been taken. The seventh had been lost for reasons that they weren’t allowed to remember, and then Gabriel’s own. 

He couldn’t remember them at all. 

“Oi, feather-brain.” Beezlebub interrupted. 

“Sorry Bee,” He grinned down at them, to their intense discomfort. “Looks like we’re just going to have to wait it out a bit.” 

Sighing, Beezlebub put an elbow on the bartop, idling watching a fly buzz around them. 

“Guess it just can’t be helped then.” They said, before eyeing Gabriel thoughtfully. “You know, this time it won’t end so neatly.” 

“I expect not, no. Not after your little break in protocol a few days ago. Sending a demon assassin to his bookshop? Come on, Beezle. Very unsporting.” Gabriel chastised. 

“Hello,” They said, glaring at him levely. “My name is  _ Lord Beezlebub _ . Maybe you haven’t noticed,” Quick as Death itself, they plucked the fly from the air then dropped it neatly into Gabriel’s little purple drink. “But I am a demon.” 

Gabriel watched, reluctantly amused, as they slipped from the tall barstool and strode casually out of the pub.

  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> This one was hard for me, I've been distracted the last few days by this awesome new Good Omens discord for fans, fanfic writers, cosplayer's all that fun stuff. There are some awesome people in there. Anyway, here is the new chapter. No song in this one. 
> 
> I do need to add that I am going out of town Friday-Sunday. This wouldn't be a problem, but I won't have internet where I'm going. I will be busy packing and cleaning and all that nonsense, so I'm not exactly sure when the next chapter will be up but it won't be any later than next Wednesday. As in, one week from today. Please forgive me.
> 
> Quick dedication to a couple of new friends, who helped me tremendously with this one, when my muse was being a whiney bitch. Aardvark and Double, you guys are fucking awesome for picking up my slack. Thank you. <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this update. Let me know! <3

_ There was sand in his eyes.  _

_ It was windy there on the dunes, on that terrible day. The Heavens were angry, dark and thundering, but the rain had not yet begun. Just the wind whipping his tunic around his legs, and the sand angrily stinging his skin.  _

_ The city was crying, wails rising in the air and pelting against his soul with the intense force of their misery. The mothers of Cairo were holding lifeless babies to their chests, keening and pleading to their God.  _

_ God wasn’t listening.  _

_ Aziraphale felt Crowley’s presence before he heard him. They stood together at the height of the city, grim and mourning.  _

_ “Why,” Crowley whispered, after a moment.  _

_ “I… I don’t know.” Aziraphale replied, shuddering, bringing his arms around himself to steady the shaking.  _

_ It was the first time he had admitted to his doubt, and the shame he felt was overwhelming. He gripped himself tighter, clenching his jaw against the sob trying to push its way out of his throat. Crowley had turned to look at him, and his long hair was thrashing about in the wind.  _

_ “Is this part of The Plan, angel?” He asked, his voice ominously low.  _

_ “I don’t know.” Aziraphale cried softly.  _

_ “You don’t know.” Crowley repeated, monotone, shaking his head. He turned back to the city. “Children. Babies. They killed… thousands… just…” He was saying, so quietly that Aziraphale almost couldn’t hear him over the screaming below.  _

_ “I…” Aziraphale tried, but he broke. The emotion got tangled in his throat and he collapsed to his knees, pressing both hands over his face. The first few heavy drops fell on top of his head.  _

_ “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore, Crowley. I’m beginning to… what if…” He bit out through his fingers, crying in earnest.  _

_ Immediately, Crowley was beside him. He knelt in the sand only inches away and Aziraphale could feel his presence like a blanket being wrapped around him. It only served to tear him apart that much more.  _

_ “What if she’s not here? What if she’s abandoned us? This is-surely she wouldn’t do this, Crowley, I can’t believe-” he wept, and flinched when he felt thin arms wrap around him, so foreign yet so achingly familiar.  _

_ Crowley, embracing him tightly, his sharp nose digging into Aziraphale’s temple. He spoke, his hissing voice rough in Aziraphale ear; _

_ “Stop!” He urged, with something suspiciously like fear. “Don’t, Aziraphale. Don’t doubt, you can’t.” _

_ Aziraphale fractured, crying messily into Crowley’s woolen tunic, clutching him desperately out of necessity. Perhaps if he held onto Crowley tightly enough, he wouldn’t fall apart.  _

_ “How, my dear? This is too much, I can feel it. Their pain, it hurts so much-” _

_ “Because you’re a bloody angel.” Crowley said, somewhat forcefully. “You can not doubt her. That’s my job, remember?”  _

_ Stung, Aziraphale pulled away from him. Crowley’s eyes had bled nearly all yellow, the slim black pupil narrowed to a thin line. His hair, darkening quickly in the rain, was wild and writhing in the wind like so many serpents. His jaw was hard, and he was staring resolutely at Aziraphale. He looked… catastrophic.  _

_ Because he was a demon, he had Fallen. Because he had doubted.  _

_ “Right. That’s your job.” Aziraphale affirmed, sniffing, wiping his face harshly. He stood and turned away. “I… have to go.”  _

_ And he went.  _

  
  
  


How many times? 

  
  
  


_ “Angel what are you doing here?”  _

_ Aziraphale, who had been trying to hide, whipped around at the familiar hiss, pressing a hand to his thundering heart. _

_ “Crowley,” He sighed with immense relief to see his closest friend, “I’m just, you know. Helping.” He hedged from where he was ducked down behind a barrel.  _

_ “If the masters find you here they’ll hang you.” Crowley bit out, looking over his shoulder.  _

_ “Yes, but they won’t find me because-hang on. What in Heaven’s name are you wearing?” He demanded.  _

_ It was at this question that Crowley flinched, looking away. He always dressed well, but during this particular year he had been dressed to impress, from his tricorn hat down to his stockings and red painted heels.  _

_ “Are you-don’t tell me you’re a master!” Aziraphale accused angrily.  _

_ He glanced at the people around them, naked and hunkered in the deepest bowels of the ship, covered in their own filth. They were all looking away from Crowley, adamantly refusing to meet his eyes. This all but confirmed Aziraphale’s suspicions.  _

_ “I go where they send me, angel. You know that.” Crowley bit out, his voice low.  _

_ “Yes, but you don’t…” Aziraphale stood carefully, his knees cracking with the effort, “You don’t hurt them, do you?” He whispered frantically.  _

_ “Of course not!” Crowley nearly shouted, and a collective flinch ran through the slaves around them. Aziraphale pursed his lips.  _

_ “Look, you need to get out of here. This one… isn’t going to make it.”  _

_ “What do you mean? We’ll be in New Orleans in three days.” Aziraphale informed him, frowning.  _

_ “No angel… you won’t. This ship isn’t going to make it.” Crowley repeated slowly.  _

_ “Oh… I see.” He looked at the people crouched around them, still silent and unmoving.  _

_ “Well… perhaps I could just…” He fretted, tangling his fingers together. Crowley stood close to him, and their arms brushed. “There are kids here, my dear. We have to do something!”  _

_ “We can’t. They’re strict on this one. We can’t interfere. If they found out…” Crowley let it go, shaking his head. “You need to leave. Now.”  _

_ “But-” _

_ “No, angel. Go on. You… you won’t want to see this.”  _

_ Aziraphale looked at him, their faces so close in the dim lights, the ship swaying gently.  _

_ “I thought you were better than this. I thought you were… Nevermind.” He whispered, before leaving with a gentle rustle of his feathers.  _

_ It wasn’t until over a year later when reviewing the ships logs for his supposed employer that he saw it; every slave child on the Brookes had been found among the wreckage, alive.  _

_ But by the next time he would see Crowley, he wouldn’t remember him.  _

  
  


_ How many times, my dear? How many times did I deny you? _

Aziraphale sat on the floor of his shop in the dark, his back to the counter of the till, with his fingers twisted through his hair. He was vaguely nauseous from the assault of the memories. His head ached, and his throat burned. 

But he remembered it all. 

How many times had Aziraphale denied him, how many times had he cast Crowley aside in favor of his own self-seeking holiness? How many times had he put himself first, had he put his status as an angel, his reputation with other angels who had never treated him like anything better than the humans themselves that they looked upon with disdain? How many times had Crowley tried to show him that he may be a demon but he wasn’t, and had never been, evil. How many times had Aziraphale broken his dear friends heart?

_ Too many times.  _

  
  
  


Crowley, possessed by some ominous sense of foreboding, tempted their host into private seating. Whatever that witch was up to, it was absolutely not going to go well for him and the less people around to witness, the better. 

Aziraphale had made an effort. For the most part, the angel was steady, fixed in his ways. Where Crowley was fluid and ever changing, Aziraphale seemed to find his niche and settle there like an old oak; putting down roots before slowly expanding and adapting to everything around him, but never actually altering in any significant way. 

Crowley was very familiar with the look of him at this point, and he could see where Aziraphale had applied a crisp new tartan bow tie, his shirt was freshly pressed. He had shined his shoes and he smelled, strangely, faintly like apples. 

He looked delectable, and the pleasure of seeing him so bright and enlivened was the only thing about this evening that Crowley found appealing. 

“Have you ever been here, Aziraphale?” Anathema asked as they were led to their table. 

“I haven’t had the pleasure, no.” He answered, his gaze darting about with wonder. 

The table was rectangular, with a shimmering dragon painted across its surface, spitting fire that wrapped around the edge. A thick gloss coating covered its three dimensional scales. The restaurant itself was beautiful, the kind of classy drivel with history that Crowley knew Aziraphale appreciated. 

Anathema had sat first, with Aziraphale pulling out the chair directly opposite. Newt, the idiot, placed his hand on the back of the chair next to the angel. Crowley, feeling petulant, bore down behind him and hissed loudly, letting his tongue slide out passed his teeth. 

“Oh, yes of course, my mistake,” Newt stammered, releasing the chair so suddenly that one would have thought it burned him. He moved quickly around the table and took his place next to Anathema. 

Crowley fell into the chair and glanced over at Aziraphale, who was _ tsking _ at him. He was also pressing his lips together in that suspicious way that he did when he was trying not to smile. 

One bottle of Prosecco and a soda later, because Newt was apparently a  _ child _ , Crowley was just beginning to relax. 

“So you’re a computer engineer, you said?” Aziraphale asked Newt pleasantly. 

“Yes, thanks to Anathema.” He answered, looking over at her with such gross fondness that Crowley privately gagged. 

“He was under a little curse, when we met.” She smiled. 

“That’s an understatement,” Newt countered, scoffing. “I couldn’t touch a computer without it exploding in my face.”

“Really?” Aziraphale breathed, leaning forward with interest. 

“Yep. Since I was a kid. I used to shut down the power network for our entire block when I would try to plug one in. It was awful.” 

“How did you break it?” 

“It wasn’t difficult. Curses are like… an improperly shelved book. You just have to remind them that they’re not supposed to be there, and move them along to where they should be.” Anathema answered. 

Aziraphale, delighted by the analogy, asked;

“So what did you do?”

“I found the bit of magic that was out of place and just suggested that it move along and occupy space that it would find more to its liking.” She shrugged. 

“She gave it to my boss!” Newt whispered conspiringly. 

“You didn’t!” Aziraphale gasped, amused. 

“She did!” Newt confirmed, giggling. 

“He was an ass. He deserved it.” She grinned, somewhat devilishly. 

Crowley remembered it well. He had also had a hand in that one. The manager at Newt’s company had been a major prick, and he had been happy to tempt him into drinks at the club so that Anathema could perform a quick transferring spell. Not only did Anathema get what she wanted, but Crowley had been able to have fun and cause a bit of mischief. It had worked out quite nicely for everyone. 

Well, everyone except the unfortunate Mr. Norman. 

“Is he still your boss?” Aziraphale asked, before taking a short sip of his wine. 

“No, he was demoted shortly after. You can’t be the manager of the technical support department if you short circuit the system every time you press a button.” Newt laughed. 

The first of their orders arrived, salads and miso soups. Crowley had no intention of eating his own, but he rather enjoyed watching Aziraphale eat. He ate with such enthusiasm, the flex of his jaw, the soft noises of appreciation, the breathless compliments. It was rather… evocative. 

Crowley found himself flexing his hand on his leg, sipping his wine only for something to do with himself. When the main course arrived, Anathema happily offered to share her food so as the angel sample the separate sushi rolls. Aziraphale was just thanking her and reaching his chopsticks out to her outstretched plate when Crowley couldn’t help himself;

“Gluttony, Aziraphale? You’re the most sinful angel I know.” he teased, his voice light. Azriaphale didn’t slow, continuing to gently pry one piece of the roll off of Anathema’s plate. 

“I’m the only angel you know, my dear.” He smiled,  _ no, was that a smirk?  _ Then promptly popped the morsel in his mouth. 

“So how long have the two of you been together?” He asked, after he swallowed. 

“Just over three years,” Newt answered, trying and failing spectacularly to use his chopsticks. He dropped a piece of sushi and it fell apart on his plate. “What about you guys?” 

Crowley froze, eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open, glaring at the idiot. 

“We’re not-”

“Oh, a while. I haven’t exactly been counting. You should try this Crowley, it’s delightful.” Aziraphale interrupted him smoothly, neatly holding a piece of sushi between his chopsticks out for Crowley. There was a challenge in his eyes. 

Crowley hesitated. Should he? Aziraphale was doing something here, something much deeper than offering a bite of food. 

“Make sure to chew. It’s not like the oysters.” He nudged, softly, blue eyes locked on him intensely. 

Crowley lowered his head, allowing his glasses to slide down his nose, and looked Aziraphale directly in the eye. The air around them was suddenly tense as Crowley leaned forward and opened his mouth, somewhat wider than a human would have, showing off his teeth. Aziraphale carefully placed the sushi directly on his waiting tongue, smiling beatifically. Crowley chewed slowly, feeling as though something very sinful had just occurred. 

“And how did that come about, your meeting?” Aziraphale turned to ask Anathema and Newt, and the moment was broken. Anathema, the witch, was picking up her chopsticks again and smiling like she had a secret. 

“Oh, well she- Anathema just showed up at my club,” Newt said. “I play D&D with some guys and she just  _ walks in _ one night.” 

“D&D?” Aziraphale questioned, taking a sip of his wine. 

“Dungeons and Dragons, it’s a role playing game. It’s quite fun, you make your own character and go on quests. Mine is an elf who toes the line between Lawful Neutral and Lawful Evil and-”

“No one cares, Frodo.” Crowley groaned. 

“Now thats not true, dear. I find it fascinating. Dungeons and Dragons, it sounds exciting! Tell me about this Lawful Neutral and Evil business,” He requested, leaning forward slightly.

Thus began a long and tortuous conversation about the intricacies of what Newt called the  _ Alignment Chart.  _ Even Anathema joined in, the traitor. Crowley suffered through discussions about character creation, variations of alignments, and popular campaigns. 

“So how did the  _ two of you _ meet then?” Aziraphale asked when,  _ fucking finally _ , their conversation began to wind down. They had finished their food by then, and had ordered sweet frozen desserts. Aziraphale put the little spoon in his mouth, his plump lips pursed around it as he pulled it free. He gestured between Crowley and Anathema. 

_ Oh, no, absolutely not-  _ He began to panic. 

“That is an interesting story, actually.” Anathema began, blinking as she leaned forward, and Crowley had a sneaky suspicion that she had been waiting for the question. 

He was the only one allowed to scheme at this bloody table! 

“It  _ reeeally _ isn’t, angel. Quite dull. Finished, have you? Excellent, time to go.” Crowley said, readying to rise from his chair. 

“Now just a moment, Crowley. I would like to hear it. Would you mind?” Aziraphale asked, blue eyes blinking up at him where he was half risen from his chair. Crowley grit his teeth and suppressed a growl, falling back into his seat. 

“It was about twelve years ago. My mom had just died, and I came to England to live with my aunt.” She began, leaning her elbow on the table, meeting Crowley’s gaze defiantly. 

“She was working for the American ambassador as a cook, so she lived on the grounds in a guest house. Crowley was working there at the time as well, as a nanny.” 

“A nanny? Is that so?” Aziraphale asked, smiling over at Crowley, who could only sneer at Anathema. 

_ You will absolutely pay for this _ . He promised her silently. She ignored him. 

“I used to watch him with their kid, the ambassadors son. His name was Warlock, he was snobby little brat. Crowley was his nanny for years, until just after his eleventh birthday. So he was around a lot, I saw him daily.” 

“You antagonized me daily,” He corrected nastily. 

“Well you were doing a terrible job on that kid, someone had to.” She shrugged, sipping her wine. 

“It was my  _ job!  _ It wasn’t your job to spell my hat to stick to my hair, or to change my instruction books to pictures of  _ kittens!”  _

“It absolutely was my job. You never would have forgiven yourself if you had ruined that boy, Crowley.”

“I was not ruining him! I was doing what I had been told!” Crowley argued, his voice rising in distress. The same argument, from so many years before, had never been settled between them. They hadn’t discussed it since, for this very reason. 

“They told you to  _ damage a child.  _ You were going to a dark place and I couldn’t let that happen.” Anathema proclaimed, standing firm. 

“It wasn’t your place to say what I could or couldn’t do!” He seethed. He felt Aziraphale place a warm hand on his forearm, but he shook it off. 

“It was made my place to keep you from damaging yourself so irrevocably before  _ he  _ got here!” She exclaimed, the words coming fast, nodding towards Aziraphale. 

_ Bloody witch and her bloody prophecies!  _

“What-what do you mean? Crowley? Crowley, my dear, stop!” 

But Crowley was already leaving, his chair shoved back so hard that it toppled onto the hardwood floor. He stomped through the surrounding tables and out of the door. Only to hiss angrily to himself when he realized it had been the wrong door. 

He came out into a lovely japanese  _ Garden.  _

“Satan’s great putrid bollocks!” He cursed, and turned to retreat back into the restaurant but Aziraphale was already through the door, closing it gently behind him. His soft eyes were on Crowley, wary, and he had one hand held up as though to pacify him. 

“It’s not what you think.” Crowley growled, beginning to pace on the cobblestone path. It was a beautiful garden, small and enclosed in a courtyard, full of stone and moss wrapped around a little koi pond. 

_ He hated it.  _

“They told me to corrupt the kid, that he needed to grow up to be a bad guy. I said fine, kids are easy to influence, whatever. But he was a _ nice kid,  _ Aziraphale. I had to  _ really work on him _ , and it wasn’t easy but it was  _ my job _ and I had to! You don’t know what they-”

“My dear, stop-”

“-do when you disobey! I would have suffered centuries in Hell, one more rotten kid didn’t seem so bad-”

“Crowley,” 

“-so of course I put all the demon I had in me to make him as evil as they wanted-”

“ _ Crowley _ !” Aziraphale finally shouted, and Crowley went silent, his chest heaving. “It’s okay. I forgive you.” He offered, softly. 

And oh, wasn’t that  _ just so nice.  _

“I don’t need your forgivenesss angel!” Crowley spat, “I am a demon! We don’t do forgivenesss! We are evil and-”

“You’re not evil, my love. Quite the opposite.” Aziraphale said,  _ sighing  _ and  _ smiling _ with something like  _ mercy- _

Crowley lashed out and shoved him back against the stone wall, clenching his fists in Aziraphale’s perfectly pressed coat. He shoved his face up close to the angels, their noses brushing, and swore viciously; 

“ _ I am evil, Aziraphale _ !” Wide blue eyes watched him with shock, from so close that he could almost feel the brush of golden eyelashes. “ _ I am not nice! I am not good! I- _ ”

Aziraphale’s hands, so warm and firm, came up to slide up his neck and Crowley choked on his own words. Thumbs pressed to his jawline, holding him steady, and his chest  _ ached, _ oh how it  _ hurt- _

“You are.” Aziraphale stated calmly, and Crowley found himself being pushed back ever so gently. He stumbled, grabbing Aziraphales shoulders instinctivley, to catch himself. “You are nice.” Aziraphale added, his voice low. Crowley felt a stone pillar press into his back, digging into his shoulder blades. “You are good.” Aziraphale said, almost matter-of-factly, as though commenting on the weather. He reached up and plucked Crowley’s glasses from his face, leaving him bare and defenseless. 

He stepped right up close, between Crowley’s own feet, so that their chests were nearly pressed together. One hand traveled up the back of his neck to the base of his head, twisting in his long hair. The other gripped his jaw gently. Crowley was lost in it, unable to speak or move or even breathe, captivated. 

“You are full of love, Crowley. I should know, I can feel it. I’m an angel.” He breathed, and Crowley could feel it across his lips. “You can’t hide from me, my dear. I know you too well.” Aziraphale smiled. 

And then kissed him. 

This was not the gentle, chaste thing from before. This was something else, something  _ hungry.  _ Aziraphale nipped Crowley’s lower lip with his blunt teeth and Crowley complied, opening willingly. Aziraphale tasted of salt from the sushi, and sweet Prosecco. His tongue was warm and wet, where Crowley was dry and gasping for it. The fingers on his jaw tightened, tilting his head to the side the way a puppeteer would his doll, to push his tongue in deeper and Crowley  _ just let him.  _

It had been so long since Crowley had done this. Years, centuries, millenia. No, that wasn’t true. He had  _ never _ done  _ this _ . Aziraphale kissed him like he was starving for him, like was suffocating and Crowley’s lips and tongue were his oxygen. Rebelliously, Crowley’s hands slid from Aziraphale’s shoulders and around to the back of his head, tangling in fluffy white hair. Not pulling, just holding them steady. 

Aziraphale stepped closer, and it brought them flush together. And… yes. That was  _ absolutely _ an erection pressing into him. 

“Haaahnnnnng,” Crowley moaned, pulling back for air that he didn’t need before snapping his jaw shut. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Aziraphale asked, as soon as their lips parted. He gazed at Crowley hungrily, bright blue eyes taking in all of him. “You don’t, do you? You haven’t a clue. Well, I shall tell you.” 

Aziraphale went for his mouth again and Crowley could only open pliantly, one arm sliding down and around to grip his wrinkled coat. 

“You dote on me, do you realize? Breakfasts and cocoa. Rare wines, fruits from across the seas.” Aziraphale breathed, pulling away, before leaning in to kiss the side of his mouth, moving around his jaw. He pressed into Crowley again, and Crowley’s knees shook violently. 

“You protect my interests. Scaring customers away from my shop.” Aziraphale chuckled, before biting just under Crowley’s jaw. 

“Nnng,  _ angel _ ,” Crowley tried to growl, but it came out as a whine and Crowley clenched his jaw shut. 

“You,” Aziraphale breathed, seeming to lose his composure for a mere moment, before continuing. “Are a _wonder,_ the way you move is _art_ _in motion. _Every part of you, from your feet to your lovely eyes, I could study you the way I study my books. You _are _my favorite first edition, my most treasured. Would you permit me?”

“Angel, please,” Crowley gasped, his body on  _ fire _ from the sheer amount of  _ love.  _

“Another day, then. For now…” Aziraphale loosened his hold, cradling his head instead of commanding it, and kissed him again. He sighed into the kiss, and the fire around them dimmed to a kindling. 

“I’m so sorry that it took me so long, my dear.” Aziraphale whispered against his lips, and the ache of it nearly sent Crowley to his knees. He was trying to breathe, trying to not just discoporate on the spot, trying to speak-

“Er-sorry to interrupt an intimate moment…”

Crowley released Aziraphale and whipped around like he’d been bloody shot, glaring at Newt with rage that bordered on  _ murderous.  _

“Quite alright, Mr. Pulsifer. We were just coming back inside.” Aziraphale offered kindly, as though his clothes weren’t obviously dishevled, as though he didn’t have  _ sex hair- _

“Ready?” The angel asked, straightening himself out before holding out his hand, palm up. What else could Crowley have done?

He took Aziraphale’s hand. 

It wasn’t until after they had left the restaurant, after Crowley had driven him home with a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, that Crowley found himself standing alone in his flat. He had spent endless minutes during the drive struggling for a way to ask Aziraphale over to his flat to continue what they had started, only for Aziraphale to speak first, gently telling him to go home and get some rest, that they would see each other the following day. 

  
  


He was staring out the window at the beauty of London, feeling the tingle in his lips from Aziraphale’s kisses, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out with haste, hoping for Aziraphale, but seeing Anathema’s name instead. 

**I’m sorry for tonight, that wasn’t how I planned it. -WITCHY BITCH**

Crowely couldn’t find it within himself to be cross with her anymore. 

**It’s fine. - sent**

He slid his phone back into his pocket, sighing, then pulled it back out as it immediately vibrated again. 

**I know it is. I didn’t mean to upset you, but sometimes the ends justify the means. I hope this helps you forgive me. -WITCHY BITCH**

Attached was a picture. 

Himself and Aziraphale at dinner, Crowley had just begun to lean in towards the proffered chopsticks, his glasses had slid down his long nose. Aziraphale had turned to gaze at him, desire that Crowley hadn’t understood at the time simmering plainly in his eyes. 

Immediately he was engulfed in warmth, no,  _ heat _ .  _ He was burning _ . He recognized the feeling and gripped his phone tightly, staggering to his chair as his vision was slowly taken from him. 

  
  
  


_ There had been an unaccountable passage of time since their Beginning. Not since their creation, as that had been long before, but since he sat upon the edge of Heaven and split himself into two.  _

_ Broken, as a whole. Complete, as two.  _

_ Since their Beginning, their forms had changed. No longer did they occupy their celestial bodies of light and energy. They had changed, all of them, to mirror the image of Her favorite creation. Humanity.  _

_ Even in their new bodies they still completed each other, the light to his dark, the cold to his heat, the calm to his chaos. Where he was gifted with Creation, his Other was a Soldier. One to help craft the beginnings of the universe, and the Other to protect it. He was wild and a bit careless, he loved the beauty and possibility of it all, of what it could be. His Other was steady and patient, indulging and proud to see it all come to be.  _

_ He lay on the soft space of the Other’s lap with his dark hair, the color of the spaces between stars, falling around them both. Pale fingers twisted gently through the strands, enjoying the new feel of them. They gazed at each other without fear or doubt, for they knew each other as well as they knew themselves.  _

  
  


_ ‘I helped create a new cosmos today,’ He had said in their own way, as language had not yet been created. His long body was stretched out, one leg propped up, as he reached a hand up to brush the halo of white curls across the Other’s head.  _

_ The Other, soft, pale and bright like stars to compliment his darkness, smiled down at him.  _

_ ‘Did you,’ He had asked, before; ‘Try this, it’s new.’ _

_ With one finger, the Other gently pulled down his lower lip and slipped something small and round inside his mouth. Frowning, he held it there.  _

_ ‘Now what,’ He had asked, confused. He felt the Other’s amusement linger in the air around them.  _

_ ‘Chew it. With your teeth.’ _

_ He did, and the thing popped, breaking open and flooding his mouth with sweet juice.  _

_ ‘You chew and swallow them, that is how the humans will sustain themselves,’ He had said, delighted.  _

_ They laid again upon the edge of Heaven, watching the Garden below as his Other fed him, gently wiping dampness from the edges of his lips.  _

_ It was like this that Lucifer came across them, striding along with a few of the new lower class of angels in his wake. He smiled down at them, and his image was lovely.  _

_ ‘I’ve had an idea, something else we can create for Her. A lower place, below the Earth. You are Creation, will you help me bring it into existence?’ Lucifer had asked, his smile luminous in it’s beauty.  _

_ ‘I’ll be back in a while. Wait for me here, my angel.’ He had said, before turning to Lucifer.  _

_ It won’t be for the Humans, it’ll be just for Her, and for us. Will you help me? _

_ It’ll be just for us.  _

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am late posting, and I am so, so very sorry. I've had some health issues and I've been ill. (I am fine, I'm recovering!) I have not forgotten this story. I am still working on it, I promise. It's just taking me a bit longer. Please forgive me. 
> 
> This entire chapter is a memory. It's an important one, so I went ahead and gave it it's own chapter. 
> 
> Again, I am so sorry.

_ “It’s the turn of the century Aziraphale, come on! Everyone will be too busy celebrating to pay any attention to us.”  _

_ “Heaven is all seeing, Crowley. We can’t let our guard down, even for a moment. The consequences-” _

_ “Damn the consequences!” Crowley shouted, wild and reckless, and with a minute amount of desperation.  _

_ “You’ll be destroyed! Now, stop it!” Aziraphale whispered harshly, from where they were standing in Saint James park. It was near midnight and the grassy lawns were overly crowded with humans waiting for the new year.  _

_Crowley had, with a bit of demonic intervention most likely, gotten them into a more secluded area of the park. They strolled along unnoticed by security, the chatter of humans growing lower as they moved closer towards the Thames. _

_He had agreed to meet Crowley, reluctantly, here in a place so public that it made him nervous and tetchy. Crowley’s carelessness was not helping in the least. His short curls were frayed from the pull of his own long fingers, the bottle of wine swinging from his other hand was only a quarter full. He shrugged at Aziraphale’s scolding, his face twisted. _

_“How long have we known each other now, angel?” He asked instead, hissing slightly. _

_“A little over five hundred years. My dear, you’re drunk.” Aziraphale sighed. _

_“Five hundred and twelve yearsssss.” Crowley corrected. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. _

_“Yes, my dear.”_

_“Do you remember?” Crowley, his tone a bit lower, swirling the wine bottle around in his hand. _

_“I do. It was that awful party. The one with-”_

_“The wine that had turned, yeah it-”_

_“Made everyone so ill. We were vomiting for days after.” Aziraphale finished, fond of the memory. _

_“I thought for sure you had done it on purpose, trying to discorporate me.” Crowley smiled. _

_“I thought the same. Hell had sent a worthy adversary, I thought, as I was puking outside in the gardens.” _

_“The entire situation got a lot funnier when I realized you were just as miserable as I was.” Crowley grinned over at him, before taking a healthy swig of wine. _

_“Oh, give me that.” Aziraphale tutted, gently prying the bottle from Crowley’s fingers and bringing it to his own mouth. _

_They stood side by side in silence for a moment, gazing in the direction of the Thames, listening for the chime of Big Ben to signal the turn of the year. It was surprisingly quiet, the noise of traffic muted. The skies were clear, a lovely night for fireworks. This was luck rather than any kind of miracle, as even their powers couldn’t control the weather. _

_“I’ve brought you something.” Crowley finally murmured, looking down towards their shoes. _

_“Oh? Let's have it then.” Aziraphale smiled, as he had come to love Crowley’s little gifts. _

_But instead of handing over the trinket, Crowley had gone quiet. The familiar lines of his body tense, his thin lips pressed together. Aziraphale wished he would take off his glasses. _

_“What time have you got, angel?” Crowley asked instead. _

_“Oh, well,” Aziraphale pulled out his pocket watch, looking it over. “Less than a minute until midnight. My dear, what is it?”_

_“I’m not sorry, you know.” Crowley said firmly, finally looking up at his face. _

_“Sorry for what? I do wish you would explain what you-”_

_Big Ben had gone off, and the first of the fireworks had been shot into the air. People were shouting somewhere nearby. But these things were inconsequential, as Crowley had just grabbed him by the hand and pulled him close. His lips were dry, and the long fingers that had pressed to Aziraphale’s jaw were shaking. _

_In his shock Aziraphale kept his eyes open, and he could see Crowley’s through the lenses. They were shut tightly. Aziraphale came back to himself and pulled away harshly, glancing around as he brought a hand to his mouth. _

_“Crowley, what in Heaven are you doing?” He whispered, hands shaking, his fist clenching around something. Something Crowley had left in his hand. _

_“Nothing, angel. Nothing at all. Happy New Year.” Crowley offered softly, and Aziraphale looked back to him. Then hardness had gone out of him. His shoulders had dropped, his expression hollow, like a deflated balloon. Alarmed, Aziraphale gripped the folded paper tightly and reached out, but Crowley took a step back. _

_“I’ll sssee you later, yeah? Enjoy the fireworks.” _

_“Crowley-”_

_With the near silent sound of wings he was gone, leaving Aziraphale alone with the aborted sentence still lingering in his mouth. He inhaled shakily in the absence, his chest tight. It was an envelope that Crowley had pressed into his hand, with one word inked across it’s front in a long slender hand. _

_ _ ** _Angel_ **

_ Without conscious thought, Aziraphale brought himself back to his flat in Italy. The streets below were loud with raucous partying. He paid them no mind. Uncaring of frivolity, he lit the lamps with a miracle and sat in his favorite chair. His fingers shook as he pried the letter open.  _

_ _

** _I’m shit at speaking and you enjoy reading, so this works yeah? I have a plan for this night and no matter which way it goes, I need you to know a few things. First, thanks for finishing off the wine. It’s awful, but it’s the best I could do on short notice. _ **

_ _

_ Unbidden, Aziraphale laughed, pressing one trembling hand to his own wine stained lips as he continued.  _

_ _

** _If I know you at all, I know how tonight will go. And I don’t blame you, I really don’t. I’m a demon, you’re an angel. It’s just not done, I know. But you have to know how I feel for you. Demons aren’t supposed to be capable of love, Aziraphale, but I am bursting with so much love for you that I’m burning with it. My happiness only exists in your presence. My joy is created in the shape of your smile. My soul is irreparably stained, but the light of you is the closest I have ever felt to redemption. _ **

_ His throat tight and eyes burning, Aziraphale took a breath and continued.  _

** _I know you can’t accept my feelings. I know that what I want is impossible. I know that this will be too much for you, too fast. I am going to bed now, for a few hundred years at least. By the time I wake up, we can put all of this behind us. We can pretend it never happened and I swear I will never mention it again. Just promise you’ll still be my friend angel, please, or I will have to march against heaven and scream at the feathery bastards until they allow me to love you freely or kill me and put me out of my misery. I have never shied from blasphemy, for God’s wrath does not frighten me nearly as much as the thought of losing you. _ **

** _I’ll see you in a few centuries. I’ll dream of you._ **

** **

_ By the time Aziraphale was finished, the letter hanging limply in his hand, he was crying in earnest. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. There was a heavy ache in his chest, and he couldn’t deny the cause of it. Was it wrong? _

_‘I’m not sure it’s actually possible for you to do evil,’ Crowley had said once, with his serpents tongue. When was that? Aziraphale couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? With the words had come the sensation of relief, and a familiar warmth that he knew very well. _

_Love. _

_It was with no small amount of guilt, that this realization came to him. His love for God, his love for Heaven and his fellow angels, for all of God’s creations. This love had always come first, for him. But this love was a kindling, burning within him always, warm and soft and steady. _

_Whereas his love for Crowley had become the stars, vast, full of heat, and unending. This love consumed all, burning brighter than even his loyalty to Heaven. It had always been about that, hadn’t it? Loyalty. His side. Their side. Heaven verses Hell. Aziraphale had chosen loyalty blindly, over and over, even when Crowley had continued to show him that he was more loyal than any angel. _

_Well, no more. From now on, Azirphale would chose Crowley. Heaven be damned. _

_His mind made up, lighter and more guilt free than he had ever been in his very long life, he carefully folded the letter and slipped it safely into his pocket. He left his shop and went off in search of his love. _

_He didn’t get very far. _

_Gabriel and Michael found him one block from Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale could see his window. The light was on. _

_He didn’t struggle when they brought him into head office. Even then, he didn’t believe they would really hurt him. They were angels, angels weren’t bad. He had been so very wrong. _

_“Principality Aziraphale, you have once again been found fraternizing with the Demon Crowley. This is a most grievous offence and shall have to be punished accordingly. How do you plead?’_

_“Guilty.” _

_“Very well, but we have copious amounts of evidence proving- hang on, did you just plead guilty?” Gabriel asked, dropping his papers and sharing a look with MIcahel, before they both frowned over at him. _

_“Yes. I’ve also come to resign.” Aziraphale stated, matter of factly, clenching his hands together and rocking on his heels to hide his nerves. _

_“Resign? You can’t resign from heaven!” Michael insisted, eyes wide. _

_“I think you’ll find that I just did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be off.” Aziraphale offered, polite and quick, as he turned and began to stride from the room. He tensed when the hands wrapped around his arms, pulling him to a stop. _

_“You can’t just quit Heaven, Aziraphale.” Gabriel stated, before calling out over his shoulder; “Bring them in!” _

_“Bring who in? What are you doing?” Aziraphale demanded, growing increasingly alarmed with each passing second. _

_ “What is it about this demon that you find so irresistible? It’s...gross. And it’s getting ridiculous, really, that we have to keep doing this.”  _

_“Doing what!” Aziraphale exclaimed, trying to turn against the tight grip on his arms to see the angel walking in. He was… vaguely familiar. _

_“Zachriel, look, it’s your favorite customer.” Michael smiled serenely. _

_“Back again, are we?” Zachriel droned, unpleasantly. _

_Zachriel, angel of Memory. _

_“No… no you can’t!” _

_“Oh, but we can. And we have. How many times is this?” Michael turned, frowning at Gabriel. _

_“Six? Seven? Not sure.” He answered, shrugging. His manically wide grin sent a wave of nausea through Aziraphale. _

_“Why?” He breathed, as Zachriel stepped close to him. _

_“Why? Because of the balance, Aziraphale! You and your nasty demon lover keep balancing the scales! How is Heaven supposed to win, if you keep evening out the numbers!” Gabriel declared incredulously. _

_“What, that’s not-”_

_“Don’t bother to deny it. We saw you just this evening.” Michael stated, nearly simpering. Aziraphale thought of the kiss, so quick and chaste, and felt sick. _

_“So you’ve just… been…”_

_“Wiping you clean and sending you back out again, of course.” Gabriel finished, nodding. As if this made sense. As if this was rational. Zachriel stepped in front of him and raised his pale hands towards Aziraphales head, and he began to struggle violently. “I’m going to have to reach out to our contact in Hell and make sure they know it’s been done. Can’t have Crowley reminding Aziraphale of their association.” Gabriel added, to Michael. _

_Aziraphale yanked his arm free, and he felt the press of folded paper in his breast pocket. Crowley’s letter, wrapped in the white Handkerchief that he carried with him always. _

**_You have to know how I feel for you. _**

_“No, please! I’ll stop, I’ll-” Zachriel grabbed his forearm in tight grip. In an effort to put distance between them, Aziraphale sagged, falling to his knees and leaning back. Zachriel only followed, leaning forward, long fingers reaching for his hair. _

** _The light of you is the closest I have ever felt to redemption. _ **

_“I’ll never speak to him again, I swear!” Aziraphale pleaded, picturing the broken look on Crowley’s face in Saint Jame’s park. _

_How many times had this been done to them?_

**_Just promise me that you’ll still be my friend, angel._**

_Aziraphale’s shoulders were straining against the hold of three angels, his brothers. He had never felt so betrayed in all his life. Was this her plan? _

_Zachriel’s hand made contact with his temple, the touch soft. Gentle, even. _

** _For God’s wrath does not frighten me nearly as much as the thought of losing you._ **

** **

** **

_ _

_ _

_ _

_ ‘Funny thing is, I keep wondering whether the apple thing wasn’t the right thing to do, as well. A demon can get into real trouble, doing the right thing. Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing, and you did the bad one, eh?’ A serpent's grin.  _

_‘Not really,’ He had replied, concerned by this odd and friendly creature. _

_‘No,’ the serpent had sobered. ‘I suppose not.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in an AWESOME Good Omens fan discord server, if anyone would like to join, please let me know in a comment!


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